Iron Sharpens Iron
by Calico West
Summary: A man from Jess' past comes to Laramie for a rematch of a gun battle, and he carries two things with him: an equal draw and a vengeful father.
1. Chapter 1

Iron Sharpens Iron

_As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.  
Proverbs 27:17_

Chapter One

Jess Harper. Jess Harper. Jess Harper! The name never came singularly, but was repeated over and over in his head, each successive time coming with more intensity than the one before it. What often came simultaneous with the internally spoken name was the rapid and perfect firing of every bullet out of his gun. It was this way now. Wesley Bolton lined up the targets in his sights, placing the face of his adversary over the bottles in his mind and the staccato rhythm came from his gun, the pressure from the trigger firing each bullet at the imaginary, and real, targets before him. The glass broke into multiple shards, scattering in a shiny array to the ground, not a single bottle escaping complete destruction. Harper's face could be eliminated with the bottles, but never completely from Bolton's mind. The bitter taste would always be on his tongue. Jess Harper!

The reloaded gun was now back at his side and Wesley turned, his eyes finding the nod of approval coming from his father's head. This was the greatest compliment of his abilities that could be given and whenever he received that nod, a swell of pride always formed in Wesley's chest. No one was faster than Steve Bolton and Wesley was almost his equal. But even with the same skills flowing through their veins, Wesley would never share the gunfighter's reputation that Steve proudly carried. All because of one man. Jess Harper. Jess Harper. Jess Harper!

Wesley popped a fist into his thigh, his other hand quickly drawing, ready to fire again. This time it was at nothingness, except a memory. The bullets flew out of his gun in a swift exit, peppering the ground so that dust spewed up in six evenly spaced places. Satisfied that the name and its equally loathed image had been significantly destroyed, at least for now, Wesley's fingers reloaded the weapon, as a gunman never carried an empty gun, and then slipped it back inside his holster, where this time it would remain for a lengthier time. He turned to see his father walking toward their horses and Wesley knew without being told that it was time to go, as the barren piece of Dakota Territory had seen enough of his wrath. Yet his feet couldn't carry himself with the same stature that went with Steve Bolton. Ever.

Wesley looked down, his eyes keeping to the pathway that he would tread lest he would stumble as only one of his legs could be trusted. Putting his foot forward, Wesley began his steps, always awkward, never without a limp, but also serving as a constant reminder of the darkest page out of his past, that forever changed the history of his future. He could never truly follow in his father's steps, especially in the most important way. To be a gunfighter with a name, the man needed more than a fast gun, but needed to be without weakness. Wesley's weakness was not one that could be hidden, but was as noticeable as the gun that he wore on his hip, as it was this leg that could never be repaired. He'd been this way for eight long, torturous years. Because of Jess Harper.

Turning off the repeated name by setting his sights on the infamous day as he was helped into the saddle, the empty land around him suddenly blurred until it was no longer in front of him, replaced with the cluttered images of yesteryear. They were in Texas and it was hot, but when wasn't the temperature set ablaze in the middle of July? He'd heard of Jess Harper, actually it was more than hearing of him, but there was almost a form of admiration in his being as Jess' reputation began to grow at the same rate as the younger Bolton's. Some had said that it was the same feeling that swirled around in Harper's veins as well, but it wouldn't be truly known until they would come face to face. If they ever came face to face, and somehow, when two men shared not only a similar reputation, and being nearly the same age, a meeting would be inevitable.

And then it happened. The two men met on that hot summer's day in Texas. Wesley was in the saloon and Jess had just entered, the hush settling over the equally drunk and sober crowd as soon as their presences were felt. Jess walked up to the bar, his dark hat pushed up with a finger at his order for a cool beer, if that were a possibility, but to stay on Jess Harper's good side, the bartender would have ran to the far north where the climate was cooler and run all the way back just to make sure the beer the gunman ordered was less than room temperature. The bartender waited with held breath as Jess took the mug to his mouth, the satisfied smack of his lips enough to get the man behind the counter's lungs functioning again. Jess would have never shot the man if his beer hadn't been cold, but reputation brought fear, and a man good at his craft would never squelch it. Especially if the fear was in his opponent, but none existed in Wesley Bolton's being.

Jess had noticed the gunfighter that was gearing up to be as experienced as his father leaning against the bar's top as soon as he entered, the rush going through his veins in an instant knowing by the look in the younger Bolton's eye that he was itching for a fight. If Jess had been older, wiser, less cocky, then maybe, maybe he would have finished his drink and walked away. But he downed his beer and turned his head, his blue eyes seeking another set of blues that sparkled with spite. There was no need for introduction, no intention of a handshake, just a simple nod was passed between the two, but the gesture said a hundred different words, all meaning the same. Gunfight. Both men were game, if the prod was sharp enough, and Wesley had been sharpening his since Jess Harper's name had ever been placed alongside his in their shared occupation. Wesley didn't have to goad Jess into a fight, but what better way to seal your fame than take on one of the best?

Jess didn't need to prove anything to anyone, but he had never backed down from a fight, and he wasn't about to start now. Wesley new the spot to press, his grin spreading across his face as he watched the lines along Jess' mouth tighten as his teeth became fastened together, his eyes firing the first shots before the actual gunplay. Very few words were needed, but it was the singular, "outside" that made the chairs scrape across the wooden floor and dozens of feet hurrying out the batwing doors ahead of the duo. The word spread like the proverbial wildfire until everyone that could hear, and even the ninety-something man simply referred to as "Old-timer" that couldn't have heard a bomb going off, were quickly informed of the impending gunfight between Jess Harper and Wesley Bolton.

Jess versus Wes. The title couldn't have been more perfect, as if it had been planned at the beginning of time. The entire population of the small town in northern Texas lined the street to watch the anticipated gun battle to finally determine which man was faster, the rhyming names being bounced off of tongues faster than the bets being placed on which one would win. There wasn't any law around, to quiet the crowd or stop the battle, but even if there had been a man with a star pinned to his chest, even he would have likely only paused his step, in foot and in duty, to allow the two men to perform. It was a moment like this that made it seem that they were all born for this, except, one just might have to die for this.

Jess stood still, his eyes as unmoving as his entire body, the only exception of the necessity to blink, keeping his challenger directly in his sight. He knew the reason why they both were there, defined in a single word, status. It meant more to the other man across from him, but if Jess could win, having an esteemed reputation would propel him forward. However, if it was the opposite and he'd lose, it was his life. Yet, somehow, that didn't bother him. There was no one that cared about him. No one that would mourn. A deadly bullet would be destined for him sooner or later anyway. And even if Jess had wanted to, there was no stepping back, for the seconds had finished ticking, the boiling point had been reached.

The guns were pulled, Jess' hand a split second faster, the bullet from his gun searing through the air first meeting its ominous position in flesh as Wesley's bullet found its return path. An experienced leap brought Jess' body flat to the dirt before the lead could touch him and as Wesley's finger touched the trigger once more, Jess' own produced another blast, the low-lying angle of his body making the second bullet only tear through his side. Wesley's left hand cupped the wound near his rib, but it was the one from his leg that produced the most blood and it was soon about to undo him. He took a step, the challenge being relayed across to Jess Harper that it wasn't yet over and Jess drew to his feet, but Wesley's leg could no longer support him. He went down, the gun in his hand dropping into the dirt, the pain coming over him in waves until he found his solace in darkness.

Jess kept his hand on his gun, the finger ready to produce another bullet if need be, his eyes shifting from the younger man on the ground, to the older Bolton that was now walking toward his unconscious son, but even then he knew if Steve would take him on, the results wouldn't be the same. Jess had known the presence and the risk of Steve Bolton before he'd drawn on Wesley. With a deep breath inhaled and then slowly exhaled, Jess eyed Steve's every step until he passed him by, and then Jess holstered his weapon and began to walk away. This fight was now over, that is, unless it would come back another day.

Steve dropped a knee into the dirt, both hands reaching out to pull his son up from the ground, but his eyes never left the retreating frame of Jess Harper. Experience in a wide variety of gunshot wounds, Steve knew that the two inflicted upon Wesley's body weren't dangerous, only enough to make the blood flow freely from the impact of both bullets, one alongside the flesh of his side, one inserted just below the knee. If either bullet had done more damage, if either bullet had taken his son's life, then Jess Harper wouldn't be walking away, but would be right on the other side of his gun. Maybe someday he would be. But not today. Not tomorrow. Not even the next year. But it would come. It would come.

The present images were now entirely on Wesley's focus, the memory pushed back where it belonged, just under the surface where it could be instantly touched at the proper time, and as the gravel hadn't return to his spit, his gun would stay silent for a few days more. The territories underneath their feet changed near daybreak, the northern towns of Wyoming new to the Bolton men, but it was likely that their names were not new to them. Reputations always went before a man, sometimes years ahead as it was in Steve Bolton's case, for fathers had been telling tales to their sons from an early age, and now those sons were close to telling their own boys about the famed gunman who had never once fallen in battle.

They were in a café, seated at the corner table where most men with an unsavory reputation would gather as to attract less attention than if they were seated in the establishment's center. Wesley leaned an elbow on the table, looking up at the waitress as she poured the coffee, giving her a flirtatious wink before she took their order, even though she seemed less than interested in his boyish smile. Following her swishing skirt all the way until she disappeared into the kitchen, Wesley then took a sip of the steaming cup, wincing at both its burn and strength and he hit the cup back into its saucer with a clank, the contents sloshing out onto the table. This brought his eyes to the droplets on the wooden surface, and what started seeping up the dark brew. A newspaper.

It was folded across its front, laying discarded in the middle of the table that normally would have gone unnoticed as neither Bolton had genuine interest in the local news. However, there was a name printed in bold, positioned just above the fold that seemed to reach out and slap Wesley across the face, or perhaps it was better felt as a kick in his bad leg. Harper. Wesley picked up the paper and unfolded it in one flick of his wrist, the article opening before him bringing a satisfied smile to start forming in the corner of his mouth. The throbbing of his heart picked up in pace, until the rhythm was matched in his head, the repetition already at work, but this time his gun would stay at his side, for the pretty little waitress didn't need to have to clean up the mess of plates and glasses that he would have easily broken with each firing of his bullets. Jess Harper. Jess Harper. Jess Harper! The next time the name would be uttered would be its final time. For it was time for Jess Harper to pay for what he'd done. The newspaper returned to its folded position and Wesley gave a glance at his father, the announcement shining from his eyes as evident as what produced from his lips.

"Let's go to Laramie, Pa."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

It wasn't the usual outing for Slim, Jess, Daisy and Mike on the road to Laramie, for they had all piled into the wagon together. Often in such situations, Jess would be on horseback, leading the way or sticking close to the wagon's side, but today he had joined the family, seated next to Mike in the wagon bed as Slim drove the team sitting alongside Daisy. There was more laughter this way, more opportunities to share and bond as a family which was something that continued to be shaped beyond the three years that the group of four had been together. Although there was nothing wrong with adding his own personal touch to their relationships, the main reason Jess' backside was in the wagon and not in his saddle, was that his mount needed a new shoe, and Daisy was in a hurry to get to town, and Jess wasn't about to stay home. But as it would turn out, it would have been better if he had.

When a man with a former reputation gets a familiar tingle down his spine, it never goes ignored, for if it did, it might be the biggest mistake the man had ever made. The wagon had barely come to a stop when the prickle began at Jess' neck and traced all the way down to his bottom, his eyes taking in the main street of Laramie in rapid glances, but there was nothing in sight that merited the caution. He stood rigidly, unable to shake the emotion as Slim helped Daisy to the ground, and he might have allowed his sharp senses to reign fully in his mind until he found its reason if he had been the only member of the family in town. But they had all arrived together.

"Hand me that package, Jess," Daisy pointed to Jess' feet. "No, not the pink one, that's for Mort's new grand-niece. Remember?—I made her that sweet little nightie. I can't wait to see baby Emmie Lynn, but since I might just stay and rock that precious sweetheart all afternoon, first I've got to stop in and give Martha Halloran those curtains I promised. Yes, it's that one by your right foot. Thank you, Jess. Come along with me, Mike."

"Aw, Aunt Daisy," Mike hopped down out of the back of the wagon and tugged at the collar of his clean shirt. "I'd rather stay with Slim and Jess."

"And I'd rather you come with me," Daisy put her hand on Mike's chin, letting her finger do a gentle rub near the corner of his mouth to perk up a smile. "No arguing or no dessert for supper tonight. Slim and Jess will probably go places where little boys aren't allowed to go. Besides, you want to see the baby, don't you?"

"I guess," Mike nodded, starting to follow Daisy's steps into the stage office, "as long as she don't cry the whole time we're there."

"Did you say anything to Daisy about us going places where little boys ain't allowed to go?" His spine no longer able to hold onto the itch, Jess jumped from the back of the wagon, landing next to Slim's tall frame and lifted his gaze to look at the bemused crinkle around Slim's eyes.

"No," Slim slightly shook his head as he gave a one shouldered shrug. "I guess she just knows us pretty good by now."

"I reckon," Jess nodded, pushing back his hat with a finger and then broke into a grin as two different strides aimed for the Stockmen's Palace. "You're buying the first, and the last."

"Then if that's the case, you'll only get one," Slim gave Jess a sly smile, "your first and last."

"Ain't you just the most generous boss a ranch hand ever did have?" Jess asked sarcastically, his smile matching the tone of his voice as he pushed the saloon doors open and walked through, blinking his eyes several times to adjust to the dimmer light.

"We're partners, remember?" Slim said, dropping the necessary amount of coins on the bar top for their two shots of whiskey. "Equal share?"

"Oh yeah," Jess quickly drained his glass with a wince. "I reckon I should buy your first and last too, 'cept I ain't got any money."

"Now why doesn't that surprise me?" Slim couldn't wipe the smile from his face, even after tasting the bitter liquid from his cup. "All right, that was your first, and here's your last." Slim pulled another coin from his shirt pocket and flipped it to the bartender.

"Ain't you ever gonna cut loose?" Jess asked, wincing once more as the whiskey poured down his throat.

"Nope," Slim shook his head, pushing his one and only empty glass across the bar, "not as long as I have to keep you in line."

"Slim," Jess leaned an arm on the bar and gave Slim a half smile that split open just far enough to show the gap at his teeth, "if you ain't succeeded in that now, you ain't ever gonna."

"Could very well be," Slim put his hand on Jess' shoulder. "Come on, Pard. Daisy's probably ready to go over to the Hartley's by now. I'd kind of like to see the new baby too. You?"

"Sure," Jess shrugged, walking ahead of Slim to the saloon's exit, "I ain't opposed to holding her, as long as she don't need her diaper changed while I'm doing so." But the infant would never feel Jess' embrace. His foot had barely touched the outside dirt when the earth would seem to somehow stop spinning.

"Harper."

He hadn't really forgotten, but Jess should have known by the edgy feeling that ran down his backbone the moment the wagon rolled into town that something, or it should have been better described as someone, was about to reach out and grab him by the shoulder. Now his spine had more than a tingle, but it was instantly stilled as his professional stance took over, each foot planting firmly on the ground, already certain as to what would come next. Jess knew the voice, knew the face, knew the man before another word between them was even uttered, but he also knew the reason of the encounter.

"Who is he, Jess?" Slim asked, standing a few inches behind Jess, his height giving him the advantage of seeing the man that Jess' eyes were narrowing upon. It was a look that Slim had seen before, and every time it was shown brought a sickening thump to slam into his chest. He asked the question, although Slim knew the answer even if Jess wouldn't provide the details himself. Who was he? The name might be unknown, but the relationship with his partner was as evident as the cold stare that was passed between the two men. This wasn't a friend, this wasn't an acquaintance, this wasn't someone he'd only heard about, but this was pure and simple an enemy, right out of Jess' past and put into his present. "Jess?"

"His name's Wesley Bolton," Jess finally spoke, but his eyes didn't flick away from the man that stood unwaveringly across from him, with one exception. When another Bolton's presence was known, Jess turned his gaze briefly, for only a mere second to the elder, then back to Wesley's chiseled face. "His pa's the name you probably know, and he's just over by the livery. Steve Bolton."

"Steve Bolton," Slim's voice took on a strange tone as he whispered in near awe, remembering the accounts that he'd heard about the sinister gunfighter that had somehow escaped death for over fifteen years. "Pa talked about him like he was some kind of legend. Is that really him?"

"Yup," the short answer was almost snapped, as Jess' lips popped the final letter.

"Jess," Slim wanted to reach out and point to Steve Bolton's ominous stature, but kept his hand stuck to his side, as there seemed to be an unspoken command hanging in the air that no one should cut the tension that wavered between the two Bolton's and the single Harper. "Is he gunning for you?"

"Wesley, yes, but Steve, no," Jess barely shook his head, "at least not yet."

"Yet?" Slim asked, his eyes going back and forth between the two Bolton's, but then as he focused back on Jess' position, he clearly could see that it was the younger man that only Jess could see.

"Yeah," Jess answered, his voice soft, but even the lower notes couldn't hide the deep grit that resided in his throat. "I'd only face Steve's bullet if I kill his son. One right in the heart."

Slim ran his tongue along the bottom of his lip, feeling the indent of where his teeth had been biting into its edge, Jess' words echoing the voice of his father many years earlier, a piece of the long ago conversation whispering into his ear as if it had been spoken only that morning. "Son, Steve Bolton's the type of gunfighter that knows only one aim. His opponents that are too late on the draw have all got the bullet in the same place. One right in the heart." And the reason that Steve Bolton could still face another man, was that every single man he'd faced had all lost the fight.

"Right in the heart," Slim whispered, looking back to Jess. "What's this all about, anyway?"

"See Wes' leg?" Jess asked, not pointing, only narrowing on the man's weakness with his eyes and knew by the slight intake of breath that Slim was seeing the exact place below Wesley's right knee. "He's lame 'cause of me. The last time we faced each other, I crippled him."

"His bullet?" Slim asked, picturing the gunfight between the two men and the one sprawled out in the dirt, but it would only be complete if he knew if Jess had been hit or not.

"Never touched me."

"How long ago was that?" Slim's question brought a rise in his brow, knowing that the time would have preceded Jess' life at the Sherman ranch.

"Eight years."

"That's a long time to hold a grudge," Slim said quietly, but from the look of animosity in Wesley's face, the span of time could have been as short as eight days or eighty-eight years and the need for revenge would be just as acute.

"Time's nothing."

"I guess when there's meaning, it is." And the time was now.

"You better get outta here," Jess said, his voice rising, now the grit so rough it felt as if a part of it had reached out of his mouth and scratched Slim across his cheek.

"I'm not leaving your side," Slim took on his own level of tenacity, but it couldn't compare to Jess' high intensity.

"You will," the tone was back down to a whisper, but deep enough to rattle in his chest. "Now go. Find Daisy and Mike. That's where you're needed most."

"But Jess, I…"

"Do I need to repeat it?" Jess nearly growled, the sound being felt more in his throat than actually being vocalized. He understood Slim's willingness, and appreciated it even more, but Jess could not let Slim stand with him this time, even if it the possibility was real that it could have been the final time. Being together would have made it two against one, which would have quickly prompted Steve Bolton to fill in the gap and step across from Slim. Never would Jess let that happen. Ever.

"No, you don't have to repeat anything," Slim slightly shook his head, "but there's nothing saying that you can't walk away with me."

"I ain't trying to get in a gunfight, but if one comes at me, and I reckon I already know it will, then I ain't gonna back away from it. I don't think you would either, Slim, no matter who was holding the other gun. I think I've said enough. Now get."

If there was ever an exact feeling of being torn, at that moment, Slim felt it begin at the location of his heart and tear completely through his middle, until he thought for sure a part of him was left alongside of Jess as his feet were taking him away. He couldn't defy Jess, and there was truth in his words that Daisy and Mike needed his presence more, but it was also true that Slim wanted to remain exactly where he had stood. But he kept walking, until he was only in the position of a spectator.

Jess eyed his opponent, and in a way, it felt as if the span of time had never existed, and it was exactly the way it had been on that hot July day in a small Texas town. But time had gone by, eight years of it. They were older, wiser, stronger, and braver. But they were also more equally matched. Perfectly. In the eye. In the hand. In the draw. In the speed. In the accuracy. Perfect. In every single way. The only difference, was that one man's leg was lame, but at that moment, the way Wesley stood, only the man that had pulled the trigger to put the bullet in that leg could see his weakness.

It was clearly evident that the idea of a fight was not just being tossed around, but was already accepted. Where was Mort? Slim's eyes darted back and forth, searching the gathering crowd for a sign of Laramie's sheriff, but he was nowhere in sight. Hadn't someone behind him said that he had gone, to check on the Hartley's newest addition? Dear God, somebody better be after him! It had already begun, and no one, no one could step between them. Maybe not even Mort himself. Slim tried to take a step forward, but it was if his foot was sealed in stone. Perhaps everyone else around felt the same heaviness he did. Everyone, except Jess and Wes, and they were on center stage.

"Seems like it was only yesterday that we first met," Wesley said, calling out his words loud enough so that the crowd that gathered could hear. He smiled, taking his eyes off of Jess long enough to look around at the townspeople, just as it had been on that hot, July day in a small northerly Texas town. "They called it Jess versus Wes. Remember? Only now, it's Jess versus Wes, part two."

"Might have the same outcome as the first," Jess answered, narrowing his eyes at his opponent, noticing that the returned stare was producing lethal darts as the memory of Wesley hitting dirt, to rise forever with a lamed leg was as real to the man as what was currently in front of him.

"Could," Wesley shook his head, "but I doubt it. All these years you've been taking it easy living the life of a rancher, I've been honing my skill. Not for my sake," the left hand went to Wesley's chest and then his finger formed a point and shoved it in Jess' direction, "but for yours. Does that scare you?"

"No," Jess said coolly.

"We'll see," the reply was just as cold.

"If that's so, then you're gonna have to go first," Jess said, his voice at its lowest pitch. "I ain't a killer."

"And I am?" His head was cocked to the side, and Wesley Bolton looked every inch of a man that could kill or be killed.

"Who knows what you woulda ended up being if I hadn't stopped you that day. Maybe you'd already be dead."

"If you think I'm gonna thank you, then all you're gonna get is a bullet. And just so you know, my leg might not work anymore, but there's nothing wrong with my hand, my eye, or my draw."

"Seems to me you're doing more talking about it then actually doing something about it," Jess said, knowing that they were the magic words, and nothing was going to stop the pendulum from swinging forward.

"Then let's do it." Wesley said, his hand hovering over his gun, the flash of lightning ready to strike, so fast that it would barely be noticed, from either man. "Now!"

How something as short as a mere second could be slowed down to a standstill, those watching would never know, but the actions were witnessed so precisely, that an artist could have depicted each detail with eerie accuracy. Slim held his breath, the guns being pulled, first by Bolton, then by Jess, yet triggered in a near simultaneous action, the sharp blasts stinging his ears and thumping his chest at the same moment. But there was also the noise of a low-pitched grunt emitted as lead met flesh. Wesley Bolton dropped to the ground as soon as the bullet made impact exactly where Jess had aimed it, the breath in his lungs gone, his heart growing silent a moment after, as his life was over. Jess stood still for a moment, his gun lowering to his side, knowing the extent of the damage without even fully looking.

Slim released his breath. It was over. Or was it? Something inside of Slim just didn't feel right, like the pressure in his chest that should have been released upon relief of knowing that Jess had come out on top wasn't letting up at all. He soon found its reason, because Jess began to sway. His blue eyes, once full of fire and life suddenly turned deathly cold as they found Slim's horrified face, and then came to a close before his body hit the ground, the gun that had produced the other death landed in the dust a mere second earlier. Slim couldn't breathe, his heart flying so wildly in his chest he felt its rapid throb throughout his body, settling as a pain in his temples. Jess was hit! Dear merciful God in heaven, Jess was hit! Wesley's bullet had found its perfect mark too. Slim had always feared it, and knew one day it would happen, and it was today. Today Jess had met his match. Jess wasn't the greatest gunfighter that ever lived. There would be someone that would have an edge on him or would be his equal. And Jess had just faced that someone. Jess was hit. Jess was the victor, but he was also the victim. Dear, dear God.

"Jess!" Slim couldn't stop the shaking of his limbs as he kneeled by his unmoving partner's side, his eyes unable to find a sign of life from a breath with his face and chest pressed against the earth. Slim turned his body over, wincing at the rush of blood pouring from his chest, his hand instinctively going over the wound where he should have felt a steady or weak thrum of Jess' heartbeat. Looking up, Slim saw a myriad of faces beginning to blur with the moisture that came unbidden to his eyes, but with a few quick blinks, it was Daisy's shocked expression that stood out among the rest, and a man that stood over his lifeless son.

"Slim?" Daisy barely choked out his name, her body frozen where she stood not just by the shock that gripped her frame, but by at least four different hands that held her tight, two that belonged to Laramie Sheriff Mort Cory. When the lawman had approached the scene, Slim had never known, but it was too late. Too late to stop a needless killing. Too late to stop this.

Slim tried to answer, his mouth opening and then closing, unable to say it, but knowing that he had no other choice. He looked through his vision that danced with tears at the man that had been responsible, also lying on the ground in a puddle of blood and then back up to Daisy and he slowly shook his head. Slim's throat thickened enough that he knew that before he could utter a sound that he had to make an attempt to clear it, but it only sounded as if he were trying to hold in a sob. In reality, he was. Slim took a shaky breath, little rivulets that he rarely felt beginning to streak down his cheeks, landing softly on his partner's still frame, the inevitable unable to be delayed any longer. "He's dead."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

He's dead. The echo in Slim's mind somehow was louder than the volume of his voice had been. A woman screamed, but it wasn't Daisy, for her body was now being lifted up by secure arms, not allowing her limp form to land in the dust. Slim would have risen to go to her side, Daisy's fainting understandable, but also alarmingly painful, but his hand refused to be removed from Jess' chest. Slim followed Mort with his eyes, carrying Daisy, as the sheriff took her into the hotel lobby, the closest building that would have a couch for such instances but when the door closed and she was no longer in sight, Slim's eyes were drawn back to the dead gunman in the street. And the other gunman that still stood over him, whose eyes were boring so firmly into Slim that he could feel their piercing, as if a rough thorn had purposely been thrust inside of him, and it had. Retaliation had to go somewhere. The man's son was dead. And so was Jess. Steve Bolton could exact no revenge on a dead man.

Slim swallowed, if what was in his throat could even make it downward, and broke his end of the stare into Steve Bolton's cold expression, knowing by sound alone that the aging gunfighter was picking his lifeless boy up out of the dirt. His partner's pale face was now the only thing Slim's eyes could focus on, yet the blurring from unshed tears marred his view of the vital expression that should have still been there if the battle had never ensued. But no amount of ifs could change a thing, past, present or future.

"Allow me—" The voice was slightly shaky, standing directly behind him, but even with the quivering, Slim recognized its owner, "—to get him out of the dust and on into the funeral parlor?"

"No," Slim shook his head, not looking up into the sorrowing face of Mr. Elbee. He didn't want to see the proprietor of the funeral parlor standing there, dressed in his black suit, head down, eyes shadowed, ready to do his duty. Mr. Elbee's offer to take Jess away hurt so much inside of his heart, that it felt as if it couldn't find the ability to beat one more time, but it continued to give him life. "I'll take care of him myself."

"But…"

"Myself!" Slim looked up then, knowing very well that his voice was enough to hammer a nail into a fence post and Mr. Elbee jumped backward three feet. Like a ripple effect going through the town, everyone within hearing range of Slim retreated slightly as to not be the potential next target of his grieving fury.

Mr. Elbee wasn't going to touch Jess, but the undertaker had a valid point. He couldn't leave Jess on the ground any longer. Slim put an arm underneath Jess' legs, the other went around his shoulders and his muscles bulged tightly as he lifted Jess from the ground, his partner's doll-like limbs hanging loosely past Slim's waist. Jess' head bent into Slim's neck, the touch of his nose against Slim's skin made him nearly bite his lip completely in half. Taking a deep breath with an added groan in his chest, Slim began to walk, his damp eyes dimming out the people that were standing in clusters along the edge of the street, whispering and mourning, all watching his every step. But where was he even going? Where was the wagon? The livery? If so, that was behind him. Would he have to turn around? No. When they arrived in town, Slim had stopped the wagon outside of the stage office so Daisy could give Martha Halloran a pair of curtains she'd been sewing before going to visit the Hartley's new baby. That's right. There it was.

Only a few feet from the waiting team, both horses suddenly snorted, the fear in their eyes as evident as their front hooves that started pawing the ground. They sensed it. They knew. After all, the blood, the death, it was all over town, and now it was right in the back of the wagon. Slim laid Jess down, his own brown shirt as stained with blood as the blue one that Jess had worn and then he reached for the blanket that Mike had sat upon during their ride into town. Mike. Where was Mike? That was a face he hadn't seen during the exchange of gunfire and its despicable aftermath. If his hands weren't busy doing a necessary task, he would have turned completely around and started looking for the boy. Slim unfolded the blanket, beginning at Jess' feet, he covered the still form, pausing for a moment at Jess' head before pulling the edge of the blanket up to completely conceal his body. Dead men don't breathe. He heard the footsteps coming behind him, knowing without looking that it was Mort, and he would have kept his back turned to the lawman if there wasn't a concern for anyone other than himself.

"Mike and Daisy?" Slim asked, seeing that Mort's brown hues weren't focused on Slim's face at all, but on the blanket in the back of the wagon.

"Mike's with Johnny and Carol," Mort's answer was quiet, even quieter still when he added the necessary two words that Slim needed to hear. "He knows." Mort rubbed his jaw, the tightness of its clenching when he wasn't speaking creating a pain that couldn't be wiped away, even though his hand did a fair amount of attempting to do so. "Daisy's been aroused, but Doctor Sweeney thought that she should stay down for a little while longer. Mrs. Halloran is going to stay with her."

"Good." Slim said with a nod, although he thought nothing good about their separation. He would have much rather the family be returning home together, as difficult of a journey that it would be. But it was how it was. Nothing could be changed. And Slim would have to go home alone.

"Slim," Mort tried to put a hand on Slim's shoulder, but the tension between them was felt in just the empty air that separated Mort's fingers and Slim's body, and he abruptly brought his hand back to his side. "I'm sorry I got there too late. From everyone I talked to though, and knowing Jess like I do – did, I know it was a fair fight."

"Fair?" The bark and bite was clearly heard in Slim's voice, the tone strangely ringing as clearly as his best friend's would have sounded. "How can you call a fight fair, when both of the men involved are dead? Don't bother to answer, for I already know. I've got to go, Mort."

Mort watched with deep sadness as Slim stepped up into the wagon's seat, took up the reins and urged the team eastward. Seeing the man sitting alone, with the body of his dead partner lying behind him, the exchange of words and the exchange of the gunfire still echoing throughout his mind, it sent a piercing blow throughout Mort's core. Stepping over to the hitching rail, Mort put both hands on its top, pressing his fingers tightly around the rounded wood. The need to mourn rose in his chest until it could no longer be contained in silence. The tears sprang into his eyes first, but the sound from his mouth soon followed, the gasp of a cry that would rip any listener's heart out.

This was the type of grieving that would permanently be settled in his heart. This wasn't just any man that had died. It was Jess Harper. Sometimes deputy, at all times friend, sometimes butting heads, but at all times even more. Jess had been like his son. His own flesh and blood son. And now he was gone. Jess was gone. Wiping the last tear off of his cheek he regained his composure and slowly walked back to his office. There was work to be done. And even if he had a dozen deputies alongside of him, Mort would have still felt alone.

Alone. There was never a truer sensation flooding Slim's soul than the feeling of solitude on the ride homeward. Everything laid out in front of him and throughout the surrounding area teemed with nature, its trees, grass, and wildlife in abundant display, but by the way he felt, he could have been driving the wagon over the most barren land in the country. But he wasn't stuck in an empty unknown. Slim was taking Jess home on the most familiar path out of Laramie. Hadn't they all just traversed this road together, just in a different direction, full of smiles and laughter, Slim and Daisy in the wagon's seat, with Jess and Mike side by side in the back? And now? The difference was as stark as a sunlit sky and a moonless night. And Slim was stuck in its darkest grip, for twelve grueling miles.

It felt as if Slim would never make it home, the road stretching out in front of him seemingly endless, even as he rounded the last bend. It didn't even feel real that he was home until the barn was in sight, already in need of another coat of paint. Three years of wind, rain, snow, sleet and heat had taken its toll on the rich red that he and Jess had painted on its sides and rooftop, but even though it had faded, the color brought a renewed shock to Slim's eyes, as now a similar brightness covered Jess' front. That sight, Slim didn't think, would ever be forgotten, no matter how many years would go by. But maybe the horrifying shock that had gone with it would one day soon fade. Maybe.

Slim pulled the team of horses to a stop and looked behind him, the blanket in the exact position that he'd placed it over Jess' body in town. He stepped carefully out of the wagon seat and into the rear of the wagon, kneeling down alongside his partner and pulled the blanket back away from Jess' face. Dead men don't breathe. But this one still did. Slim put his hand on Jess' chest and slowly closed his eyes, the slight amount of air coming through Slim's lips was produced as a gentle sigh of relief.

"Hang on, Pard," Slim said, his only response was the faint beating underneath his palm. "We're home."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Getting Jess in the house was less difficult that carrying him up the street in search of the wagon, but an added fear slammed into Slim's middle as a burst of fresh blood broke through his shirt from the contact from Jess' wound. He laid him down on the table, Jess' limp arm falling off to the side as Slim's hands began to work to unbutton the stained shirt. The gaping hole in front of him brought a lurch to Slim's middle, and if its contents hadn't already been empty, there wouldn't have been any way Slim could have held it in.

Rushing to the cupboard where Daisy kept clean bandages, Slim pulled out a large stack and promptly stuffed the bloody mass in Jess' chest with them all. As Jess began to quiver, Slim hurried to the bedroom with a blanket from each bed and layered them up to Jess' neck and then placed a palm flat on Jess' forehead and spoke soothingly to his unconscious partner, even if not a word could be heard, until Jess' being stilled once more. Now what? The original process had played differently in Slim's head, with Daisy's skilled hands doing these things, extracting the bullet, saving Jess' life, but what was thought out while he kneeled on a Laramie street and what was reality were two different things. Daisy was in town, Slim was alone, and Jess needed a doctor or he really would be counted among the dead.

Slim turned slowly around, his hand coming up to rest over his mouth, and as he twisted toward Mike's bedroom, the door being slightly ajar, he spotted a colorful Indian necklace hanging from a nail on the wall. Lame Wolf. It was only yesterday that they'd taken Mike to where Lame Wolf had been scouting and Lame Wolf took the beads from around his neck and placed them around the younger boy's. Mike had nearly hung all over his Indian friend during their visit, listening to every detail of the work that he'd been doing for the army. Maybe Lame Wolf was still there. It wasn't much, but it was something. It was hope. Slim was saddled up and riding toward the northern edge of his ranch in rapid speed, taking his mount over every shortcut that was safe enough for his horse's hooves until he finally spotted the one who he was seeking.

"Lame Wolf," Slim called before his horse even came to a stop. The young Blackfoot Indian, sensing the alarm in Slim's voice hurried to the animal's side. "Thank God you're still here. Is Captain Foster with the troop that sent you out scouting?"

"Yes," Lame Wolf nodded, giving an added gesture with his head toward the north. "A few miles over ridge."

"Good," Slim said quickly. "Jess needs help. Fast. Bring Captain Foster to the ranch. It's a matter of life or death. And Lame Wolf, this is just as important, only Captain Foster is to know."

"I understand," Lame Wolf nodded and then pointed at the blood stains on Slim's front. "You hurt too?"

"No," Slim shook his head, "only Jess. Go quickly."

"I go," Lame Wolf's feet were already in motion before he could receive another word from Slim's mouth, the hammering in his chest of worry for his white friend working almost as rapidly as his heart. He could run, swiftly, thanks to Jess Harper. Lame Wolf gave just as much credit to Captain Foster for being both a skilled and compassionate doctor to repair his crippled leg, but it was because of Jess that he was able to live to use both legs. Whatever was wrong with Jess now, he was going to use those two legs to help save him. And then when he reached the mount provided by the army that he now worked for, it would be with an even quicker pace that would help Lame Wolf cover the remaining miles to secretly alert Captain Foster of the imminent help that was needed.

Slim was back by Jess' side, waiting for what seemed like an endless amount of time until he heard the sound of an approaching horse. He peered through the curtained window, gun firmly held in his grasp, making sure that it was only the army doctor that arrived, and not someone with more sinister intention. Breathing a sigh of relief at the familiar face stepping free from his horse, Slim hurried to open the door, spreading wide his arm to usher the doctor inside.

"Captain," Slim said quickly, "I'm so relieved that you came."

"Slim," Captain Foster gave a short nod as he entered through the front door. "How bad is it?"

"That's what you're supposed to tell me," Slim replied quietly, the fear crashing into his temples with a solid ache across his forehead as the doctor approached Jess' side, unsure that he really wanted to hear what was going to be said.

"My God," Captain Foster shook his head as he peeled away the bandages that Slim had pressed into the wound. A doctor wasn't supposed to grimace at the sight of a wound, but he couldn't help his mouth from contorting into a frown. "How is he still alive? When did this happen?"

"Sometime this morning," Slim answered with a catch in his throat.

"Morning?" Captain Foster stripped the shirt from Jess' body and then firmly pressed his fingers into Jess' wrist, lest the action in tearing the fabric off of him had been enough to pull him the rest of the way under. "It shouldn't have taken that long to find Lame Wolf."

"It didn't," Slim replied slowly, guilt beginning to mix with the rest of his emotions. "The time came from bringing Jess here from town."

"You what?" Captain Foster stared hard into Slim's face, trying to understand all that he saw behind the fear in the man's glistening blue eyes, but whatever else he was holding inside, Slim was keeping it well masked. "Whatever did you do that for?"

"I can't answer that," Slim replied, his teeth sinking back into his lip that had developed a fairly deep indent since the gunfight had begun. This was where it all could have unraveled, if the doctor would reveal that the hours passed was too detrimental. "Was I wrong? Is it too late?"

"I don't know. He's lost a lot of blood," Captain Foster put his stethoscope to Jess' chest and grimly shook his head. "It's a weak heartbeat. I don't know if he can even survive surgery. There's a good chance that he won't."

"But you've got to try," Slim said, the horror weighing heavily on his entire being enough that it sounded in his voice. "Doc you can't just…"

"I'll try," Captain Foster said, beginning to roll up his sleeves, his eyes never leaving his patient. "Can you hold him still? He's down deep in his own darkness, but his flesh is going to react to my digging the bullet out. Maybe too much so."

"I'll hold him." Slim said aloud, his eyes dropping from Captain Foster's grim expression to Jess' white, lifeless one and added a silent promise. _I'll hold you_.

"I will have to work delicately, yet quickly," Captain Foster pulled the necessary utensils from his medical bag. He didn't have everything that his normal office, or even army tent, would have provided, as Captain Foster had only volunteered to travel with the scouting troop and not to be out performing surgeries, but what he had would have to do. "Any slight jarring from his body could hinder either. I'll trust your hands if you trust mine."

"I do," Slim barely breathed his answer.

"Good," Captain Foster gave a quick nod. "When there's faith in the physician, the healing is halfway there. The rest, well, is faith in the patient. I don't think I have to ask you where you stand on that."

"No," Slim swallowed, his eyes resting on Jess' face, but his gaze couldn't help but travel farther downward until he met the pulsating mark. He had always believed in Jess, his strength and ability to accomplish almost anything, but would faith be enough to cover his entire wound and surgery?

"Then let's begin," Captain Foster took a deep breath, waiting for the moment that Slim's hands were securely placed on Jess' upper body, and then he started to cut through the skin and the already raggedly damaged layers underneath.

Jess, as a whole, might have been unaware of what was happening to his body, but his body still reacted to the sharp instrument being inserted into his flesh. At first, Slim's hands were able to keep Jess' shoulders steady, his fingers pressing deeply into Jess' muscular arms to keep him pinned to the table, but the farther the doctor had to probe, the more Jess began to respond to the pain. Slim clenched his teeth together at the same moment that Jess' jaw clamped tight, his head rising off of the table as the air that had been trapped in his lungs sputtered through any opening it could find. Only it wasn't drawn back in.

Slim felt the strength underneath his fingers start to fade and shock almost brought them up to his mouth, but he kept his hands in their tight hold on Jess' shoulders, watching in horror as Jess' head dropped back to the table with a thud, his face turning to the side, his lips turning a frightening shade of blue. Dear God, what had just happened? Jess? Slim was afraid to look at Captain Foster, but he didn't need to turn his eyes on the skilled physician to know the hideous truth that was underneath his fingertips.

"No!" Captain Foster exhaled a rush of air through his clenched teeth and then brought a sharp draft back in. "I'm losing him! Come on, Jess, don't give up on us now!"

_I'm losing him,_ Slim slowly repeated the doctor's words in his head, filtering up from his frantically beating heart that continued to pour forth words, starting as a silent plea until it could no longer be contained in silence, but spilled out through his mouth. _We can't lose him. I can't lose him. _"Don't give up, Jess. Don't you dare give up! You know who you are? You're Jess Harper. You're fight, you're strength, you're stubbornness, you're power, you're fire, you're heart. You're everything. But there is something more, you're my best friend. Come on, Jess. Don't give up. You can still win this!"

Through Slim's speech, he hadn't once looked at what Captain Foster's hands were doing to try to perform the impossible, but it wasn't just the hope that emitted through Slim's mouth that prodded a heart's response. Captain Foster used every method taught him, the truth in Slim's words keeping him going until they both produced the sign of life he was looking for. Air.

"He's breathing again!" Captain Foster exclaimed, the instrument already being reinserted, grasping for a small piece of lead that had already proven that it had the power to kill Jess. "Hold him tight, Slim! His head, neck, arms, everything! I've got to get that bullet out before we lose him again!"

"Hang on, Pard," Slim said aloud, over and over again, each time stronger, with more conviction, as his hands held Jess still, hoping that the soft touch of air against his cheek would not again turn off.

"I got it," Captain Foster released a pent in breath, the bullet dropping into a nearby basin with a clank, that somehow seemed as loud to Slim's ears as the sound that had been made when it had been put in Jess' chest in the first place. "Keep him still, Slim. I've got to sew up the damage now."

"Will he…?"

"I'll let you know when I'm finished," Captain Foster replied, keeping his tone on a professional level, not wanting to give a shred of false hope to Slim, yet wanting to shout aloud that there was a shred of hope even possible for Jess' survival. "But he is still alive."

"He is," Slim breathed the words, as his heart said a repeated grateful prayer.

"All right, ease up on him, Slim," Captain Foster said, satisfied that the blood was now staying inside of Jess' body. "I've done all that I can do."

"I can't thank you enough, Captain, for what you've done," Slim slowly released his hands from Jess' frame, ready to drop them back onto his shoulders if he flinched, but Jess remained still.

"No thanks necessary," Captain Foster gave a small smile, "we can just be grateful that miracles still happen."

"Amen," Slim whispered.

"Any other man…" Captain Foster shook his head, taking Jess' pulse for what seemed like the umpteenth time since he sewed the hole in Jess' chest up. It was stronger, even if just barely, but it qualified, and Captain Foster changed his head's gesture and nodded. "…wouldn't have made it."

"Is he going to be all right?" Slim asked, still in shock, still in fear, not in disbelief.

"That I cannot yet say," Captain Foster said as he washed every speck of blood from his hands, then took the towel Slim offered him. "His body's been through hell. It's likely going to give him some hell back. He would've had a better chance of certain survival if he would have been tended to earlier. Wasn't your town doctor available?"

"No," Slim lied, keeping his mouth in a straight line. The doctor had been in town, giving aid to Daisy's fainting, and not to Jess, teetering on the edge of life in the street. If Doctor Sweeney had been summoned, either right there or later from the ranch, then Jess wouldn't have lived long enough to have Laramie's physician even touch him. Slim knew that for a fact.

"Well, I guess it doesn't matter now, just that he's still alive. I only wish I could stay longer to ensure that he doesn't still succumb. The scouting troop is due back at the fort tomorrow."

"I understand, but Doctor, Captain," Slim said, his voice taking on the tone of a plea, but held every ounce of the notes of seriousness as well. "What you've done here today has to be kept silent. I know that's asking a lot from you, but it's important that no one knows."

"Seems to me that I've kept a secret or two before for you and Jess," Captain Foster said, reaching his hand out for Slim to shake, the promise just as much given in their clasp as it was in his spoken vow. "You have my word that this will stay quiet. And I won't pry as to your reason."

"Thank you," Slim managed a small smile. The Captain had kept a secret before, and it would have been kept longer if a scalp hunter hadn't been snooping around, but this time, there wasn't anyone with a grudge observing the scene close by. Slim knew that Jess would be safe. At least as long as the secret would remain. And Slim was willing to keep it to his dying day. "What can I do?"

"Keep him as still as possible. If he can survive the next few days, his chances will become much greater. If he awakens, give him water or broth if he'll take it. Will Daisy be home soon?"

"She should be," Slim replied, his mind instantly thrust back to Laramie, seeing Daisy's unconscious form carried into the hotel. But would she really be home soon? Would she want to come back to the place where Jess' memory filled every room, since Daisy didn't know that Jess' life was no longer just a memory?

"Good," Captain Foster touched Jess' wrist and then placed all of his medical tools back in his bag. "A nurse by his side is all the more in his favor."

"Right," Slim gave a forced nod. That would be good, except Jess' nurse was in town, unaware that he even needed her. Slim didn't have the level of medical skill as Daisy, but as the evening hours had already begun to set in, Slim knew that he would be the only nurse that Jess would get this night.

With Captain Foster at Jess' feet and Slim at his shoulders, they carefully transferred Jess to his bed. Satisfied that both pulse and respiration were decent for a man in his condition, Captain Foster mounted his horse to rejoin the scouting troop with a promise to whisper to Lame Wolf that Jess was still alive. Now alone once again with his partner, Slim placed a chair next to Jess' bed and was seated, his hands instantly folding together in his lap. The hours ahead would be difficult, but it wasn't until the minute hand on the clock had turned a complete circle before Slim knew how treacherous they really would become.

Although wide awake, Slim startled at the groan that came from Jess' lips, the sound not an indication that he was awakening, but one that gave birth to fear. He leaned forward, placing a palm against Jess' cheek, alarmed at the warmth radiating from Jess' skin. Slim moved his fingers to Jess' forehead, the temperature even hotter, yet dry, without even a single bead of sweat. The groan turned into a gasp as Jess' body began to writhe, and Slim clamped his hands onto Jess' arms, the words of Captain Foster exploding like a firework in his head. _Keep him as still as possible. _The reason had never needed to be spoken, but as Slim tasted a droplet of blood on his tongue from that seemingly constant bite to his lip, he knew that it was Jess' blood that needed to stay locked where the doctor had sealed it. _Keep him as still as possible!_

That might have been easy if Jess didn't have as much fight in him as a bobcat. But it was that fight within that had helped keep Jess alive from the time that the bullet entered his chest, and his body was at war even now. Now Slim needed just as much strength and will to keep that fight inside where it was needed the most. Another pained struggle passed through Jess' lips, and Slim spoke soothingly, waiting until Jess responded to his tight hold, growing still long enough for Slim to douse a cloth in a basin of cold water to begin the cooling touch to his skin. He had to stop the fever before it progressed any further, and keep Jess' body from recoiling from his internal flames. It was a good thing Slim wasn't made of weaker material.

Slim bathed Jess' arms, stomach, neck and face with the cool cloth, dipping it afresh every few minutes, repeating the movements across Jess' skin. When Jess began to quiver, Slim left the cloth on his head and placed his fingers into the flesh around Jess' arms, keeping him pinned to the bed, at times feeling as if he were holding down an untamed animal. He didn't know how long the time went on, maybe it was only ten minutes or perhaps longer than an hour slipped by, but finally Jess was stilled, his limbs no longer in defense mode, but relaxing against the soft mattress underneath him. Slim placed his hand on Jess' forehead, still warm, but not a frightening heat. This battle, like the others before, were won.

"Captain Foster said your body might give you a bit of hell," Slim said aloud, even though he knew Jess' ears were unable to hear him. "I guess I should've known that I'd get included in that, but let's make that the last time we both have our feet touching fire and brimstone, all right?"

Slim slowly reseated himself in his chair, a deep sigh pushing through his lips as he kept his eyes on Jess, now dabbled in sweat, nature's own cooling miracle. He brushed a lock of wayward hair back where it belonged and leaned his head backward, knowing that even if he closed his eyes, not a single second of sleep would find him. The night would be long. The next day could be even longer. There was only one way he knew of that could shorten the span of time. He needed Daisy home.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

"Slim?" The voice of the stage driver gently called from his position atop of the coach when no one exited the ranch house. The place felt hollow as he pulled the horses to a stop, but that was to be expected for the loss that it had taken. "You here?"

"I'm here, Mose," Slim answered, pushing the door open, he staggered slightly and then leaned against its frame. He held a handkerchief close to his mouth, dropped his head close to his chest and then wiped his sleeve across his forehead. "I won't be able to change the teams today."

"Sure, Slim," Mose nodded, looking at Slim with a puzzled expression. Was the usually sober Slim, drunk? Sick? Or just a mess with grief. Maybe it was all three. "I know you ain't all right, considering what happened, but you, uh, look a little peaked."

"I was up all night," Slim answered, shaking his head. "Not well." It wasn't really a lie, but any other time his pretense would have made his insides squirm.

"Anything I can do for you?" Mose asked, instantly receiving a declining motion from Slim's head. "Just the teams, then?" Now the motion changed to a nod. "I'll get right to it."

"Thanks," Slim elongated the word, ending with a mushy tone to his lips.

With no shotgun man aboard, Mose had allowed his grief to flow freely from his eyes from the moment the news had hit the stage office in Cheyenne. He had planned to spend the time at his favorite stage stop in shared tears with the grieving family, but seeing Slim, the disturbing sight that he caused, dried up his tears as an alarm clock ticked loudly in his ears. As his hands went through the motions that normally would have been Slim's job, Mose kept looking over his shoulder at the partially slumped man, waiting for any other signal before that ticking would turn into a clanging chime.

Slim stepped farther through the front door, his ears picking up the more urgent tones coming from Mose's mouth as he urged the team at a faster run toward Laramie. It appeared to have worked. As long as he could find Daisy in a timely manner, Mose wouldn't take long to spread the news of Slim's rough appearance and his apparent need of intervention from Daisy's hand. If Slim didn't miss his guess, Daisy and Mike should be on the first eastbound of the day, shortly after noon. But as the sound of the stage diminished in the distance, Slim's shoulders slumped as his feet took him back inside to watch over Jess. The lies were creating nothing but pain. He could see clearly that Mose had been thoroughly shaken up over the news of Jess' passing, and he knew that would only be multiplied by a hundredfold. Despite how he felt inside, Slim couldn't turn back, and he wouldn't turn back. But he would bend a little in the right way, shortly after noon.

Frankie brought the team in, and without waiting for direction to do so, he hopped to the ground, his hands performing the necessary duty of exchanging the tired team with a fresh group. Mose had spread the word, all right. Daisy stepped from the stagecoach, the moisture on her cheeks evident of the tears that had been shed on the journey home, now blending with the fresh droplets that were coursing down each cheek. Mike held tightly onto Daisy's hand, his young face no longer full of jubilant life, but pinched with a grown-up sadness. Slim inhaled sharply at the sight of both, his conscience pecking hard at his insides, as their grief was solely his doing. He couldn't rush to their sides with the truth, not until the stagecoach's wheels were rolling again, but his eyes never left their downcast looks as he waited for Frankie's firm command to lead the stagecoach back on the road.

"Daisy, Mike," Slim said their names gently when the coach rounded the corner, out of sight. He lowered to one knee, wanting to be more level with the youngest member of the family, his eyes going back and forth between Mike's soft color to Daisy's liquid pools, and, despite her tears, she searched Slim's face for a hint of Mose's description. "There's something important I need to tell you. There's going to be shock, you might even be angry with me, but I hope that you'll forgive me."

"Slim," Daisy reached a hand forward and Slim promptly clasped it into his own, and even the strength against her palm couldn't stop it from shaking. He didn't look ill, but with her intense grief weighing heavily upon her being, she felt wave after wave of fear. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Slim slightly shook his head, "it's what's right. Jess is alive."

"What?" Daisy and Mike's voices chimed in unison, but Daisy quickly followed with a gasp and jerked her hand out of Slim's hold. "Say that again. Slowly."

"Jess … is … alive."

"Aunt Daisy!" Mike exclaimed, as Daisy's body started downward, but Slim's strong arms caught her before she landed on the ground.

"Open the door, Mike," Slim instructed, noticing at once that Mike disappeared shortly after he obeyed Slim's command. Slim laid Daisy on the couch, his fingers brushing against her pale cheek. He should have expected her reaction to be the same as when he'd pronounced Jess' death. Daisy had been weakened by grief, and the shock had sent her spiraling back to the same place of darkness as where she had landed before. Slim took a step toward the kitchen to get a cold cloth for Daisy's forehead, when a small body pressed into his side.

"Slim," Mike turned his head toward the bedroom that Slim and Jess shared, the frightened look in his eyes telling Slim plainly that he had already gone inside to look, but the image of Jess lying unconscious in the bed must not have been enough to convince the boy that Jess really was alive. He had seen death before, in the most heartbreaking way with his parents, and seeing Jess in the same manner could easily bring a similar stab of pain. "Are you sure? I mean, he looks… dead."

"He's just sleeping, Mike," Slim smiled warmly, giving Mike a comforting pat on his back, hoping that the gesture would help convey his message.

"Sleeping?" Mike's voice highly accentuated the question as doubt and fear held tight to any belief that had formed when Slim told him that Jess was alive.

"In a deeper than normal way," Slim motioned with his head toward the bedroom. "Come with me. I'll show you."

"All… all right," Mike said with uncertainty, clinging to Slim's side as they entered the bedroom door, Slim reaching down to pick the boy up and place him on his lap as Slim seated himself on his own bed.

"See, Mike," Slim whispered, pointing to Jess' chest, and the steady rhythm of his breaths going in and out of his lungs. "He's breathing, which means that his heart is still beating. Jess is alive."

"Then how come he didn't move when I touched him?" Mike squirmed in Slim's arms.

"Jess is unconscious, Mike," Slim explained, running a hand across Mike's head, "you know what that means. He can't hear us, see us or feel us, not in a true sense of hand to hand touch, but I firmly believe that Jess knows we're here. I know it's still a little scary, but his wound was bad, Mike, and the best way for Jess to heal is to be in a deep sleep."

"Oh," Mike dropped his head to the ground, unable to release his fear, even though he had clearly seen the air flowing in and out of Jess' body. "As long as he wakes up from it."

"He will. Why don't you go out and feed the chickens and gather the eggs for me," Slim suggested, wondering if it would need more than just his saying so to help the boy believe that Jess wasn't dead. He needed to see real life in Jess, not just a breath of air. Slim needed to see it too, but he knew no one could rush a body's need for healing forward. "While you're doing that, I'll tend to Daisy."

"Okay, Slim," Mike gave a short nod and then jumped free from Slim's arms, his feet pounding the ground as he exited the house, the sound enough to arouse Daisy before Slim could touch a damp cloth to her cheek.

"Slim?" Daisy asked, attempting to raise her head from the pillow underneath her head, alarmed at the worried expression on Slim's face. Maybe he really was sick. "What's the matter? What happened?"

"You fainted, Daisy," Slim patted each cheek with the cool rag, ending with a swipe across her forehead.

"Did I?" Daisy clamped her hand into Slim's as he helped her to get up, the waves of dizziness ending as she felt the ground underneath her feet. "It felt more like I was sleeping, because I just had the strangest dream."

"Come with me, Daisy," Slim guided Daisy to the bedroom door, releasing her hand as her eyes settled on a familiar face. "It wasn't a dream, at least, this part isn't. It's Jess, Daisy. He's unconscious, but he's still alive."

"Jess?" Daisy's voice quivered just as much as her body did as she took a trembling step toward Jess' bedside. Her hands slowly reached out to his still body, brushing his arm lightly at first, but when she felt the warmth underneath her palms, her knees dropped to the floor as her arms wrapped around Jess, her head pressing into his left shoulder, her weeping enough to tear another part of Slim's heart in two, as his own tears started to drift down his cheek. "Jess! Oh my Jess, my Jess, Jess."

He waited until her sobs, intermixed with Jess' name, quieted, and then Slim took a step forward, placing his supportive hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him, blinking through the tears, but no amount of repetitive closing of her lashes could reduce their flow. He felt the same way, except there weren't a hundred droplets coursing down his cheeks. Maybe it would have been better if they had.

"Let's go back to the other room," Slim said softly, helping Daisy back into the living room as she could barely see through her blurred vision. "I know we need to talk this out."

"Talk? I should say we should do more than talk. Oh, Slim, Slim, why?" Daisy's hands shook uncontrollably, unable to cover her face with the trembling fingers, she reached out and latched them firmly into Slim's arm. "Why did you make me think that he was dead?"

"I'm sorry, Daisy," Slim wrapped his free arm around Daisy's shoulders. "I had no other choice. In order to keep him alive, Jess had to die."

"I don't understand," Daisy's tone held a hint of anger that Slim had never felt emitted in his direction before.

"I know," Slim said softly, understanding Daisy's hurt and his being the reason, but it wasn't enough to stop an additional blow to strike his heart, "please let me try to explain. When Jess was shot, I barely felt a pulse when I put my hand on his chest. I honestly didn't know if in the next second or two his heart was going to give out underneath my palm. Yet, what I did know is that if I had said that Jess was still alive, whether if it was for only another second, or minute, or day, or however else longer, it wouldn't have mattered. Not even if the entire town, including Mort Cory, had been right there as witnesses, because Steve Bolton would have shot Jess. Right in the heart."

"Who is Steve Bolton?" Daisy asked, the name somehow familiar, but not so close in her mind that she didn't need an explanation.

"He is the father of the man that Jess killed. He holds one of the worst reputations in the history of gunfighters as being a cold-hearted killer. If Jess had survived the gunfight, then Wesley Bolton's father would have ended Jess' life right then and there. I wasn't going to let that happen. Not as long as there was still life underneath my hand. And there was. Jess' life. In that very moment, Daisy, Jess' life was in my hands. And so, I had to make everyone believe that he was dead. Because we weren't together, I'm afraid that included you, too."

"I suppose you did what you had to do," Daisy rubbed her heart gently with her fingers, "but I'm not sure the hole I have right here is ever going to mend. Not with a blow like that."

"I'm sorry, Daisy," Slim pulled Daisy into his arms and she freely wept against his chest. "I am so very sorry that I had to hurt you this much by keeping the truth from you. I didn't want it to be this way, but for Jess, it had to be."

"For Jess," Daisy repeated, slowly pulling away from Slim's embrace. She blotted her tears with her hands and took a deep breath, quieting the sobs in her throat. "What's wrong with me? Here I am crying my eyes out when Jess needs me in there. I'll be all right, Slim. The more I'm with that boy in there, I'll get better by the minute."

"Daisy, there is one more thing," Slim's voice paused Daisy's step in the bedroom door. "Jess is still dead. No one but us is to know otherwise."

"For Jess, remember?" Daisy promised, a small smile working its way up the corners of her mouth to glisten in her moist eyes. "I won't tell a soul."

"Thank you," Slim craned his head toward the window for a glimpse of Mike. "I better go talk to Mike. I'm sure he needs some reassuring."

They all needed the same reassuring, but after giving a decent dose of it to Mike, there was a little more calming amidst their churning storm. It was enough to carry them through to the night, as it seemed to be that the darkness always brought a returned awareness of fear, at least it did for Slim, remembering the harsh fight that he and Jess had endured. It hadn't yet reoccurred under Daisy's watchful eye, and when Slim sat down on his bed, he almost expected the groan to start anew from Jess' mouth, but Slim's eyes drifted shut instead, to flit in and out, always awakening to silence. They stayed open once he focused on the dawning rays through the window and then Slim carefully removed Mike's sleeping frame from his body, the boy understandably being attached like glue throughout the night. He laid Mike down on the bed, and then took a step closer to Daisy, who somehow remained like a rock, staying awake the whole night long.

"Morning, Dear," Daisy reached out and touched Slim's cheek with her palm. "Get a few hours in?"

"Just a few, but they'll have to do. Stay with him, Daisy," Slim said, pulling his gloves from his pocket, he tugged them on each hand. "I've got some work to do outside."

"I will," Daisy put a hand on Slim's arm before he strode through the bedroom door, "but you needn't worry too much about the chores. Once he wakes up, Mike will take care of the important things."

"He can't take care of the most important one," Slim gave a slight nod in Jess' direction. "He's got to be buried. At least, in a grave that others can see, but no one will know that Jess isn't inside. To make it as real as possible, I'm going to put him next to Ma and Pa. It's where I would have chosen anyway, if, well, if things had really turned the other way."

"I wish I could have met your parents, Slim," Daisy said, looking up at Slim but also envisioning the photographs of Matt and Mary Sherman. "But knowing you like I do, I'm sure they would be honored to have Jess, who is more like a brother to you than a friend, buried next to them. I'm sure, too, that it'll be all right to have the actual burial be delayed for hopefully a long, long while."

"A hundred years far enough?" Slim smiled as Daisy gave a light laugh, the sound like a song to his ears. "I better get to it."

With each shovel full of dirt that Slim dug, and then mounded back up, all along his shoulders and back, his muscles worked under the pressure, but they couldn't release the constant strain of tension that had been upon him. He understood Daisy's comment about the hole in her heart needing to take the time to heal, for the blow to his entire body still pressed firmly across his chest, around to his back, down each leg and back up again, settling in to the depths of his mind. The only thing that helped soothe any of the pain was that he wasn't putting Jess in the ground. Wiping his sleeve over his sweaty face, Slim turned to find Mike staring at him, and as he was finished, he picked up the shovel and walked to where Mike stood, leaning against a fencepost.

"You're doing a real good job, Tiger," Slim said, getting a small smile to tug at Mike's mouth. "I better be careful, or one of the other ranches around here is going to snatch you up, seeing how you're turning into such a top hand."

"Thanks, Slim," Mike answered with a shrug. "But you know I'll always stay with you." The addition was tagged on after a thick swallow. "And Jess."

"And we're right richer for it," Slim put a hand to the back of Mike's head. "You finished yet?"

"Not quite," Mike said, starting to run toward the feed shed. "I'll be done in a minute."

"Good," Slim smiled, but it quickly faded when he returned to the house, for this was the place where his worries were well stored.

"That you, Slim?" Daisy's voice met him from the bedroom.

"Yeah," Slim answered, quieting his voice as he stepped to the foot of Jess' bed. "Any change?"

"Not yet," Daisy sighed gently. "He looks so pale and thin. Fragile, even."

"He's still strong, Daisy," Slim said, believing his every word, "on the inside, where it counts the most."

"I know, praise God. But I sure wish I had an ounce of Jess' courage. I need it."

"You have it," Slim leaned over and kissed Daisy's cheek. "I don't want to leave, Daisy, but I've got to get a couple of telegrams out to Jess' sister and Jonesy and Andy, so they won't believe that Jess is dead if the news travels that far."

"Is that wise?" Daisy asked, clasping her hands together in front of her. "I know I don't want them to suffer with unnecessary grief, but what if the telegraph operator can't keep our secret?"

"I'm hoping to do it in such a way that he won't know any different," Slim reached his hand into his pocket to have Daisy read the telegrams he was going to give the clerk. "And a certain coin might help."

"That, and if you do it with a straight face and a firm voice," Daisy said, nodding as she read the messages and then handed them back to Slim. "It'll work."

"It better," Slim said, repeating it once more as he dismounted outside of the telegraph office. He stepped inside, the bell at the top of the door jingling at his entrance, bringing the clerk immediately to his feet.

"This is the telegram that you're supposed to send," Slim handed the paper with written details about Jess' death to the telegraph operator and then quickly pulled another out of his pocket. "But this is the one that you're really going to send."

"What?" The telegraph operator raised a confused eyebrow as he took the second sheet of paper, his facial muscles jumping with an attempted grin as he read the simple line in Slim's handwriting. "You mean, Jess is…"

"Jess is dead," Slim said firmly, tapping the second message with his finger, "but no matter what, you will send this wire and this wire only to Francie McKittrick and Jonesy. I'd appreciate it done right now."

"But, Mr. Sherman…"

"Will this cover it?" Slim asked, slapping a ten dollar coin on the counter.

"Yes," the man widened his eyes at the sum, knowing with that amount given his way, he shouldn't question Slim further. "It's more than enough, I'd say. I'll get it right out."

As the fingers started clicking the message, Slim took the first piece of paper that he'd handed the man and crumpled it up in his hand, tossing it into the wastebasket. And then the second, the one that was actually sent, Slim picked it up, and struck a match, lighting the message afire. As the flame inched up toward Slim's fingers, he let it float to the ground, grinding the remainder of paper and fire under his foot, until there was nothing more than a speck of gray ashes on the floor. The telegraph operator stared at Slim with his mouth agape, not believing what he'd just seen, read, or sent. But he would have ten extra dollars in his pocket. What did it matter to him if Slim Sherman was acting a bit strange?

"Jess is dead," Slim spoke firmly, creating a fearful set of eyes to meet his gaze that quickly turned into a nod of obedience. "Remember that."

There was not another sound given between them, and Slim strode through the office door and mounted his horse, very aware that everyone on the streets was watching him. He pulled his hat lower to his eyes and kept his gaze straight forward. They were whispering, no doubt, about Mose's tale that had likely spread much farther than Daisy's ears. He didn't mind, it wasn't as if Slim was thin skinned. And after all, Slim didn't know how he would have reacted if Jess had really died, maybe he would have turned into a sickly drunkard anyway. There had been a few times since the gunfight that he'd longed to down more than a first and last, with a decent number in between, but he wouldn't taste a single drop. Jess was still alive, and nothing was going to lure his strength to another source.

Slim rode home in solitude, unable to not think of the previous journey doing so, when he had Jess' body behind him. He licked his lip, the mark from his constant bite still tender, trying to visualize another trip, this one in the future, with a healthy and whole Jess by his side. It should have been easy, as they had ridden side by side on the homeward trail a multitude of times, but when Slim blinked his eyes he could only see his partner lying in bed unconscious. As the ranch house came in sight, Slim's pulse began to quicken, for he realized how important it really was to see Jess' body lying in bed unconscious, considering the harsh alternative.

"Is that you, Slim?" Daisy called through a crack in the door.

"Yeah," Slim answered quickly as he dismounted his horse, barely giving the reins a toss over the hitching rail. "Everything all right?"

"I was just going to ask you that," Daisy said, one hand on her chest as she waited to release a sigh of relief.

"I got the correct telegrams sent, and the telegraph operator is none the wiser," Slim answered, his long strides taking him to the bedroom. "I couldn't help but feel a heavy weight of worry while I was gone, though. Jess?"

"He's still with us," Daisy resumed her position next to her patient.

"I just hope it's not too much longer before he really is back with us."

"Give him time, Slim. Jess will come home."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Darkness. Shallow pieces of light. Darkness. A voice. Jess. His name. Darkness. Too deep yet. Can't come out. But he wasn't completely on that other side where only darkness abided. Jess felt the breaths going in and out of his lungs, the darkness pressing tightly, not only against his eyelids, but his entire body, so thick that he could have been sealed in a coffin. If it wasn't for those breaths going in and out of his lungs, he would have been certain that he was, already buried deep in the heart of the earth. But dead men don't breathe.

There was no pain in this place, no real recollection, just a blank, black page. For a few moments, all to brief, he heard a strong voice, and as the soul could never truly be stilled, Jess felt the touch of a hand, the touch of hope. He stayed there in the darkness, unknowing, yet knowing, willing his body to find a way out, but the surface seemed so far out of reach. Until. He saw a distant fragment of light. Jess reached for it, not able to stretch his hand forward, but pushing his internal being toward it, higher and higher he climbed, faster and faster he chased. Until. The black turned to color. A cascade of multi-hued droplets spilled down the blank page, coming together in the center where an outline began to take shape.

The image was faint at first, but the more he focused on what was in front of him, the clearer it became. It was a man. But it wasn't just any man, it was him. Jess Harper. He was standing alone, as the blotches of color around him hadn't yet taken shape. He squinted into the brightening light above him, and he put a hand up over his eyes, blocking its intensity, but not wanting to turn back to the blackness behind him. Jess turned his head slightly to be somewhere in between, and the colors started blending together. A sound preceded the scenery. A gun. Bullets being fired, all six of them. At him. Jess instinctively reached for the gun at his hip, but there was nothing to point at. No one to see.

Jess opened his mouth to shout, a defiant challenge to the hidden gunman, but no sound came out of his throat. He stood still, expecting the return of the bullets and one that would inevitably find him, but silence filled the air and his body remained whole. The gun still in his hand, Jess turned back to the light, less bright now, for the colors were drowning out its harsh glow. Jess stared hard into its core, not blinking, even though his eyes began to burn as the transformation of light and dark became complete. The once blurred images of nothingness that had surrounded him were gone, and in its place, became a meticulously painted picture. So real it could have been his true reality, but the actual gunfight had already happened. He was only still stuck in its aftermath.

He would have known the man across from him anywhere, the name so alike his own that when spoken, it blended to sound as one. And there would be only one left standing after the smoke would settle, leaving just a singular name to remain. Until then, the two together created the perfect title for everyone to utter as the crowd thickened for the performance. Jess versus Wes. It was how it was labeled in the duo's beginning, only fitting that it still was being referenced the same, including putting Jess' name in the front. A man doesn't usually get the chance to battle the same man twice. And win.

Jess stood in the street, his opponent going through the proper preparations in body, stance and hand, eerily similar to how it had been the first time that they met. Maybe he had made a mistake all of those years earlier, and should have taken a chance on having to face the man's father after the battle, even though the elder Bolton was the most notorious, the most vile, and the most skilled. But if he had put a fatal bullet in Wesley instead of making his leg useless, then they wouldn't be facing off again today. Not in front of Slim. Not in front of Daisy. Not in front of Mike.

They were the only three there, watching him, waiting for the draw, but also waiting for the fall. Strange that the townspeople had suddenly disappeared. It hadn't been that way in Texas, as the entire street that the two gunmen stood on were lined with every single member of the small town. Maybe it was because now that the fight was imminent, his family was all that mattered. In Texas, he had no one. Jess would have rather taken Bolton out to the countryside, where nobody could watch, yet a challenge couldn't be deferred, only handled directly. But Jess knew it really wasn't three, even though it was only Slim, Daisy and Mike that he could see. Steve Bolton wouldn't have been far, probably with his trained gun zeroed in right at his heart. The vilest gunman visible or not, Jess was ready to take on the one that was in front of him.

"Jess versus Wes. Again." Wesley's voice was loud, emphasized by an echo that came from every corner. "I wonder how I could get my name first. Oh, that's simple, kill you."

And that was his only warning. The gun was drawn, the trigger pulled, the bullet tore its path, while Jess' gun was still positioned in leather. Jess felt the impact of the bullet as loud as he had heard it fired and this was where everything should have gone black, but death wasn't ready to meet him. Not yet. But it would. It had to. There could only be one name that would remain. He had no pain, yet the puddle of blood belonged to him, and it was growing in size as his life drained away. Yet, why didn't the darkness claim him? Footsteps approached, but not that of his enemy, but of his friend. Lying on the ground, face up, he stared at Slim.

But Slim wasn't staring back at him. His eyes were entirely for another man in the street, but from Jess' position, he could only see him from the waist down, but it was the man's solid stance that gave him away. Jess couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't even feel his breaths, but he could see and he knew what was happening. Revenge. Slim started walking away from him, his body emulating that of a gunfighter with perfection, vengeance seeping from his every pore.

Jess wanted to cry out, wanted to leap to his feet, wanted to do anything to stop Slim from meeting the man in the street, but he could do nothing. He could do nothing. And what was even worse, the man wasn't Wesley Bolton, but another despicable gunman. Slim was going to die. Before Jess' own life would fade, Slim was going to die. The gunshot exploded in his ears, and then there was the distinct thud of a body hitting the dirt. Slim's. Jess fought with everything in his being to rise from the ground, and when one foot finally found stability, everything began to shift. He was once more standing alone, blood, gun and partner, gone, and the light hovered over his head, flickering brighter, diminishing the sights of reality and the clear images began to melt back into a blurred landscape of color. Until. All was black once more.

He was back in the place of solitude, back where time was nonexistent, back in the place of no pain, no recollection, no fear. Only the need for escape mattered, because now once more, there was only darkness. Darkness, but not as deep. This time there wasn't just a blank, black page, but tiny flecks of light dotting across its front. Jess reached for them, now able to stretch his hand forward, even if only a little bit, and he pushed his entire being ahead, higher and higher, faster and faster. Jess. His name. But still too deep. Almost. Jess. _Gotta wake. Gotta get back. Gotta get home. Gotta help Slim. Can't. Stay. Down. Gotta wake. Gotta. Get. Up. Slim. Slim? Slim._ Sight. Sound. Smell. It was all there. Slim. Jess was home.

Jess' eyes blinked opened, needing to be done in several repeats before his vision could fully find its focus. He was in his bed, a blanket up to his neck, and he didn't have to peer underneath to know the extent of damage that was hidden there. Slim was sitting in a chair, his head resting low enough on his shoulder that Jess couldn't see his eyes, but it didn't take much figuring out to know that his partner was asleep. He wanted to reach out and gently touch his partner awake, but the slightest movement sent a sharp pain from his chest to nearly polarize his entire body. Clenching his teeth together, Jess didn't make a sound, even though a moan wanted to escape through his lips. He remembered the gunfight, at least he thought he did, his most recent memories still a blur, but one part was obvious, he'd gone down. He'd been hit.

"Slim," Jess' soft voice brought Slim's eyelids to flutter open in a hurry. "I reckon I must be slipping."

Slim swallowed the hard lump in his throat and leaned his head closer to Jess, as to not miss any word from his mouth. Slipping? Was he slipping away from them again, only this time, being allowed a proper goodbye? "What do you mean, Pard? You know I'm not going to let you go anywhere. Besides, heaven's not ready for you yet."

"Huh?" Jess barely shook his head, too weak to keep his eyes open long enough to study the worried expression on Slim's face. Dropping his lashes, staying on the side of wakefulness, Jess took a deeper breath, trying to add volume to his voice, but there was no strength to back the air brought through his lips, and it was still a gentle whisper. "No. That ain't it. I must be slipping, 'cause I was so sure that I'd killed Wes. And I didn't."

"Jess," Slim reached a hand out to Jess' arm to still its attempt to bring a palm to his forehead. "You did kill him. Wesley Bolton is dead."

"But," Jess flexed his fist together, although being nowhere its normal ability to form a tight fist. "If I killed him, then Steve must be the one slipping. He didn't get me right in the heart. Dad-gum, by the way I feel, it musta been close, though. I reckon I'm Steve Bolton's only mistake."

"There was no mistake, Jess," Slim answered, trying to make Jess understand. "It wasn't Steve's bullet that was dug out of your chest. It was Wesley's."

"I don't understand," Jess said, his frown intensifying. "Steve shoulda shot me down for killing his son. He wouldn't have missed."

"No, he wouldn't have," Slim said confidently, remembering the look of steel that Steve Bolton bore into his being when he pronounced Jess' death. "He didn't even pull the trigger, Pard."

"How?" Jess asked, his breaths, although steady, whispered through his lips as the exhaustion was luring him back toward sleep. "There ain't… no one … faster than Steve Bolton."

"You need to rest, Jess," Slim said, letting his voice turn into softer notes. "We'll talk about this later."

"You sure I've got a later?" Jess asked, that familiar darkness starting to tug him back under, but somehow, it didn't have the same strangling hold as before.

"You do, Pard," Slim reached out and pulled the blanket back up to Jess' neck as his lips drew to a close. "I'll make sure you do."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

He'd gone in and out the remainder of the day, the night closing in with both Slim and Daisy not wanting to leave Jess' side for fear that he'd awaken once more and it would be his last. But when the sun was no longer present, Jess' eyelids came open, and a stronger man was in the place of the weaker one. Jess' words came without a noticeable quiver, and it was then that he convinced his nurse to get some sleep, in her own bed, where more than a few minutes could pass with her eyes closed. That night they all received a welcomed respite, for when Jess did awaken, he looked over at his partner, sprawled out on his bed and a snore coming through his lips, Jess couldn't bring himself to say a single word, even if he had a thirst that wouldn't quit. His hand could reach the cup at the table, and it did, even if it took nearly fifteen minutes to conquer the task from first to last.

The cup would get refilled twice more after the sun made a reappearance as Daisy was back to doting on his every need. Sometime in the afternoon, after a nap had settled in and waned, Jess awoke to a quiet, empty room, and he breathed a deep sigh, for although pain was still at an intense level, strength was returning to his core. The door opened and closed and Jess smiled, knowing before the steps turned in his direction that being alone was now over. And that was perfectly fine with him.

"Jess," Slim leaned through the bedroom door and even though he saw the blue eyes, he asked anyway, "you awake?"

"Yeah," Jess said, turning his eyes to Slim's tall frame, that seemed to stretch even higher from his position on his back. "Glad you showed up. Hand me some pants, Slim."

"You're not thinking about getting up, are you?" Slim asked, standing near Jess' drawer, a hesitant hand reaching out to grab the requested jeans.

"I dad-gummed sure have thought about it," Jess said, a little more grit edging his voice, and Slim couldn't help but feel grateful at the welcomed sound of normalcy in his partner. "I'd like nothing better than to be out roping, riding, and working my tail-end off around the ranch. But I know I can't. Not only will my body not let me, but I kinda figure that Daisy'd probably tap my skull a good one with a wooden spoon or something."

"I'm glad to see that you're acting more like yourself." Slim picked up the jeans, but before he allowed Jess to take them, he asked, "then if not to get up, what do you want them for?"

"Just to have them on," Jess stretched his arm out to its length to try to get a grip of his pants, but Slim purposefully kept them out of his reach. "You know I ain't never liked to feel dependent. I reckon getting dressed will make me feel a little less helpless."

"Then I guess you'll want a shirt too," Slim finally handed Jess the jeans and then turned back to the drawer.

"Might as well," Jess nodded, holding out his pants, wondering how he was going to get both legs in them when he could barely sit upright. "Gimme the blue one."

"They're all blue."

"The dark one. Yeah. Thanks. That way I can keep it loosely buttoned up," Jess flung the blankets off of his body and then looked up at Slim. "Where's Daisy?"

"In the kitchen."

"Good," Jess frowned. "I reckon this ain't gonna get done too prettily."

"You know, you could let me help you," Slim crossed his arms over his chest as he watched Jess make the first failed attempt to pull his pants up. "Or is that defeating the purpose of being less helpless?"

"I dunno," Jess fought off a gasp as pain seized his entire upper half as he tried to sit up. "Maybe I should just give up."

"You?" Slim lifted an eyebrow as he moved to the left side of Jess' bed. "Didn't know you knew the definition. All right, raise the left leg, there, now the right, no, don't wiggle, just stay still. I'll pull. Here's where it'll get tricky. See if you can raise your butt. Okay, it's fine that you can't. Put your hands on the top of your jeans, I'll lift you up and when I say pull, you do it. Pull! There you go, Pard. I think you're capable of fastening them. Now, let's do the shirt. Same as before, left arm, now the right, what'd I say before? No wiggling. I think I should be the one muttering 'dad-gum' just about now, not you. I know you can't raise your shoulders, so when I lift, you pull the shirt around your front. Got it? There, you're dressed."

"Thanks, Pard, that's better," Jess breathed heavily, resting his head back into the stack of plush pillows that Daisy would fluff for him several times a day. "But I reckon I just got in a full day of work."

"You and me both," Slim smiled, sitting down on his bed across from Jess.

"Where is everyone?" Jess asked, fighting fluttering eyelids that he knew if he kept them closed long enough they'd send him off to slumber, something that he didn't want to do, but it was getting harder to keep them opened.

"Well," Slim said, slightly taken aback. He had already told Jess that Daisy was in the kitchen. "Mike's been doing a man's work of the chores. He's out in the barn, and Daisy's in…"

"No," Jess shook his head back and forth. "I mean everyone else. I ain't had a single visitor since I woke up. No doctor, no Mort, no Mose, no anyone. Seems kinda odd that no one would come see me."

"Yeah," Slim said softly, looking down to his feet, glad that Jess' eyes were drifting closed, otherwise he might see in his face the guilt that would quickly spell the truth.

"What's going on?" Jess asked, knowing just by his prickling senses that there was something unsaid standing between them, like a brick wall had rapidly been built in only a few seconds flat.

"Nothing, Jess," Slim answered, but he already knew better. Jess would press. Hard. Slim already knew that he would have to give in.

"Dad-gum, Slim, you better not give me a 'nothing', I know you better than that," even in a weaker state, Jess' voice could still cut like a sharp knife, and it pierced into Slim's chest in an invisible thrust. "Something's up, and it must not be anything good."

"It's not…" Slim began, but was instantly cut off, the knife going in even deeper.

"Is it Steve Bolton? He still around here?"

"No, Jess," Slim replied, shaking his head, watching as Jess opened his eyes long enough to see his reaction and then dropped his lashes back against his skin. "He left Laramie the day after the shooting. He's not likely to be coming back."

"Sure he will," Jess said, fighting against waves of weariness. "He ain't gonna ever forget that I killed his son."

"I know," Slim said slowly, the tension in his chest that had been building up to this moment needing to be expelled. "That's why I lied and said that you were dead."

"Dead?" Jess forced his eyelids back open. "You lied? You?"

"Shocking isn't it? After all, I've always said to lie for no one. But you're not anyone." Slim's thoughts trailed backward a few years, remembering the words coming out of his little brother's mouth when Andy was caught in one of Jess' lies. "I only did what I thought was right. I did it for Jess." But then Slim had told Andy to lie for no one. Now Slim figured that he shouldn't have scolded Andy at all, for he finally understood the same feeling of protection through a lie. He too had done it for Jess.

"You said I was dead," it was spoken more as a stunned statement than a question.

"I did, right in front of everyone after Wesley's bullet dropped you to the ground. The entire population of Laramie and beyond, with the exception of your sister in California and Jonesy and Andy in St. Louis, everyone believes that Jess Harper is dead."

"That's kinda big for a lie, Slim." Jess stared up at Slim, his eyes darting back and forth as he studied every angle of his partner's face.

"I know. But I'm sure you don't have to ask why I did it."

"Steve Bolton," Jess gave an understanding nod. "Right in the heart."

"You wouldn't have lasted two seconds if I would have said that you were alive," Slim said, seeing the image of the sinister gunfighter in front of him all over again. "Bolton would have shot you cold."

"Maybe," Jess said slowly. "Maybe not. He coulda waited."

"I don't think he would have," Slim answered, shaking his head. "You should have seen his eyes. Hatred, clear through."

"That hatred can still find its way out."

"It won't," Slim's reply came quickly. "Not as long as I hold onto it, and I plan on keeping a firm grip on this lie for some time."

"Slim, no," Jess lifted his head and shook it repeatedly back and forth. "If Steve Bolton finds out what you've done, then he ain't gonna just come put a bullet through me, but he'll cut you down too."

"Then I guess that's a chance I'll have to take," Slim suddenly stood and stepped toward the door, knowing that an argument wasn't worth getting into. What's done was done. Steve Bolton's revenge pointed at his own being or not.

"No, Slim, wait," Jess started to rise, renewed strength beginning to course through his veins, but the pain kept him leveled on his back. "Dad-gum. Slim, you can't do this. I won't let you. Slim! Get back in here or so help me I'm gonna get up!"

"It's out of your hands, Jess," Slim stepped back in the room, well aware that Jess would follow through with his threat. "Besides, it's already too late. The lie was spoken and believed. The secret is being kept by those that know. Until the time something changes, Jess Harper is dead."

"You can't do it," Jess sighed heavily as the pain that had overwhelmed him at his attempt to get out of bed quickly turned into exhaustion.

"It's too late," Slim answered, holding his hands out away from his sides, "I already did."

"You're stubborn."

"So are you."

"Don't change the subject," there was a twinge of aggravation in Jess' voice. "You're stubborn."

"Uh-huh," Slim's mouth twitched with a smile.

"Stubborn. Mule-headed. No, pigheaded. Obstinate. And other words I probably don't know. But you're too dad-blamed stubborn. Like iron."

"Iron's not so bad," Slim shrugged, the smile still flitting at the edge of his mouth. "Strong."

"Ain't it said that iron sharpens iron?"

"It's a proverb in the Bible."

"That's where I musta heard it, then," Jess gave a thumb toward the outer room where he could hear Daisy still at work in the kitchen. "I reckon I've been doing more listening than I let on, 'cause Daisy's been reading outta the Bible at my bedside the past few nights."

"It comforts her," Slim gave a nod, as he had heard the pleasant words coming from Daisy's lips on more than one occasion, "and in turn it brings comfort to you."

"Yeah," Jess closed his eyes again, the sigh coming through his mouth a little gentler. "What were we talking about again?"

"Me being stubborn," Slim reminded his partner. "You likened it to iron."

"Oh, right," Jess' head bobbed once, "maybe you need to be dropped in the forge and pounded on some."

"I don't think you're quite in the condition to do that right now, Pard. Besides, you've always had more rough edges than me. Maybe I should be the one doing the pounding."

"Haven't you been doing that since day one?" Jess lifted one eyelid and rubbed his right fist, "oh wait, that was me that hit you."

"I think we've both exchanged fists a few times," Slim smiled, rubbing his own right fist. "So see, it's not just me that sharpens you, but you that sharpens me."

"But that sharpening could just wind up with you dead."

Or both of them.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

"Slim!" Mike called as he ran through the kitchen door, which closed behind him in a loud bang. "Sheriff Cory's riding up to the house!"

"I wonder what for," Daisy leaned toward the window, pulling Mike to her side so he wouldn't flatten his face completely against the pane to get a better view of the approaching lawman.

"I don't know," Slim slowly shook his head as he closed the bedroom door, grateful that Jess had fallen asleep before Mike's rushed announcement, and not while they were still deep in conversation. "Maybe he's heard something. You two stay inside, and I'll go out and meet him. Keep yourselves busy, just in case I can't stop him from coming in."

"Come along, Mike," Daisy ushered Mike toward the boy's bedroom. "I know the best place for you. Homework is calling."

"Homework? At a time like this?" Mike brought forth a distinct whine and Slim did his best to hide his grin with a rub of his hand across his mouth as he stepped outside.

"Afternoon Slim," Mort pulled his horse to a stop, looking down at the rancher's appearance, noting nothing as disheveled as Mose had rushed into his office a few days earlier to proclaim about.

"Mort," Slim greeted him with a nod as Mort stepped down from his horse. "What brings you out this way?"

"You," Mort's reply brought a thump to Slim's chest. Did he know about his lie? Was Jess no longer safe?

"Have I done something wrong?" Slim asked, trying to keep the fear out of his voice, but even if he could keep his tone steady, his eyes might convey it all instead.

"No," Mort answered, watching the expression on Slim's face carefully. "It's just that you're not doing anything at all. I'm worried about you, Son."

"I'm all right," Slim replied, uncertain if his acting ability was going to be convincing for a trained lawman, "as well as can be expected anyway."

"Slim," Mort looked at his friend, uncertain if the quick flash of emotion that he'd seen around Slim's eyes had been guilt, a lie, or strangely, somehow both. "What's going on?"

"Nothing." There it was again. The lie was plain to see on Slim's face, even if only lasted a brief second in length.

"Okay," Mort said slowly, "then if it's nothing, then tell me the reason why you haven't set a date for Jess' funeral? People in town are wondering."

"Just haven't yet." Slim kept his stance firm, knowing that he was treading on the line of truth. He knew he could trust Mort, not just because he was a lawman, but because he was his friend, but Jess was closer. Jess' life hinged on that line, and Slim didn't dare dangle it any further than he already had.

"Okay," Mort repeated, still just as slow, "then how about this, why haven't there been any wires from Jess' sister, or any from Jonesy and Andy? I know you sent them both telegrams when Jess was killed."

"You talked to the telegraph operator?" The question spilled through Slim's lips in a rapid fashion.

"I did."

"And?"

"Slim," Mort held out his hands, his voice taking on the clear note of exasperation. "That's what I'm asking you."

"I don't have all the answers, Mort," Slim replied, grateful that it seemed that the telegraph operator was staying silent in all the right areas. "And in a difficult time such as this, no one should be prying."

"I didn't think I was prying into personal matters," Mort said quietly, his friendship with Slim feeling a slight bruise developing around his core. "You've lost your best friend. We should be sharing in this together, because I lost one of my best friends too. I'm concerned about you."

"You don't need to be," Slim bit the inside of his cheek after the reply, knowing that as soon as he said the words that he had answered wrong. Mort was a good friend, his worry was genuine and understood. But he was also Jess' friend, and the pain he felt was also genuine and understood. But…

"I can't figure you, Slim," Mort sighed, placing his hand on the back of his neck. "I've never seen you this way before. Sure, I suppose a man grieves in his own way, but if I was to put my finger on it, you're not grieving at all. It's like you're holding it all in. If that's so, then you're just being plain stubborn about reality. It hurts, I know. I've been mourning every day since it happened and I'm man enough to say I've bawled like a baby. It's all right if you do, too."

"I've cried, Mort," Slim answered. That wasn't a lie. He had shed more than a man's fair share of tears from the moment the bullet had entered Jess' chest, all the way from when it was carefully extracted. And then some more.

"Well, I suppose that's a step, but nevertheless, I don't see that sort of pain in your eyes. Why? I expected to come out here and see grief covering every corner of your being, even lit up with anger, but you're acting like Jess is… wait… that's it." Mort pulled his hand away from his neck and reached out and placed it on Slim's arm. "Slim, is Jess really dead?"

"I'm sorry, Mort," Slim began, part of him wanting to continue the lie to protect Jess, but knowing that he could do so no longer. Mort's accurate guess was just as much saying that he knew. It was now in his hands to confirm it. "Come on inside and see for yourself."

They stepped through the front door, Daisy looking up from her knitting long enough to read the expression on Mort's face, knowing that Slim was about to divulge their secret to him. Mort, however, seeing Daisy sitting in her chair calmly knitting was nearly enough to tell the sheriff what he was about to find on the other side of the wall before Slim even opened the bedroom door. As it swung open, Mort leaned inside, the figure on the bed as recognizable as his own reflection in a mirror. Jess! He was asleep, but Mort could clearly see the gentle rising and falling of Jess' chest and that the color in his cheeks was a warm pink and not the cold white that he'd seen when Jess lay unconscious –not dead— on the ground.

"Why Slim?" Mort stepped farther out of the bedroom to not awaken Jess, trying to keep his voice at a whisper, but the shock, disbelief, and brief notes of anger made it difficult to keep his tone leveled. "Why did you hide this from me?"

"I had to, Mort," Slim said, his body feeling the rush of relief, but also reeling with the understood painful darts Mort's eyes were tossing his way. "I had to hide it from everyone. And believe me, I am sorry."

"You had to?" Mort shook his head, the frown deeply set in his face. "Again, why, Slim?"

"Steve Bolton, Mort," Slim said the gunfighter's name through gritted teeth. "You know his reputation."

"In the heart? Sure," Mort gave a slow nod, "it's been a topic tagged onto Bolton's name for the past fifteen, twenty years."

"Steve Bolton was right there watching the entire gun battle. Jess wouldn't have lived one second longer if I wouldn't have lied. He might have died anyway, the wound was that bad, but I wasn't about to let that man make that decision at that moment and be the one that took Jess' life for good."

"I can't say that I don't understand," Mort said, drawing Daisy's full attention with his words, Mort's own thoughts turning back to the moment that he carried Daisy away from death's cruel image. "But think of all the people that have been hurt."

"I have," Slim replied quietly, he too, looking at Daisy, and she gave an affirmative nod. She forgave him, Mort, and anyone else suffering hopefully would too.

"And?" Mort prompted with a raised brow.

"Let's take the rest of our discussion outside," Slim suggested, and when Mort nodded, he led the way through the front door, Slim standing just off the edge of the porch while Mort leaned against the hitching rail. "I'll keep saying it as long as I have to, Mort, I'm sorry."

"The pain of losing Jess was hard, Slim," Mort said after a long sigh, "but there's something else just as hard crowding inside. Didn't you think you could trust me?"

"It's not about trust, Mort," Slim said softly, "it's about Jess. I had to protect him, no matter the cost. I would have thrown away a hundred other friendships, just to preserve that one."

"I know you would have," Mort's answer came with an understanding nod, "and I do see your side of things, Slim."

"Thank you," Slim's mouth created a smile. "He might sleep awhile, but do you want to stay for supper and get a chance to talk to Jess?"

"I wish I could," Mort stepped toward his horse, "but I should get back to town. Johnny's there watching it for me and I'm certain I don't have to explain further."

"Sure. But, keep the secret, Mort," Slim's voice held a strong note of pleading. "For Jess' sake, please keep the secret."

"I will, Slim," Mort promised, placing a hand on Slim's arm. "But I feel the need to give you a warning. And it's going to come in a form of a story so to make you think a little harder on this. There was a young woman in love, but instead of waiting for her wedding day to seal that love, she and her man took that final step in their relationship before exchanging vows. A few months later, a little one was discovered to be on the way. The young woman couldn't help but panic, even though she truly loved the man, for in the eyes of many, what they'd done and what now was alive inside of her, had come about in the wrong way. The couple made another choice, to keep the baby secret until they properly became husband and wife, and that included keeping the news from the most important people in the woman's life, her mother, father, and brother. But, as it would turn out, the older brother found out anyway. The young woman begged her brother to keep her secret, and even though he knew the right thing was to tell their parents the truth, he went along with his sister's wishes. But it wouldn't be for long. It couldn't be for long. A woman's body doesn't take too long to begin to change, and it was only a week or two after the wedding, when the secret could be contained no longer, and she came in tears to her parents, the news that she had been carrying their grandchild for the past few months spilling from her lips. Yet, it came as no surprise to either of them. You see, they already knew. They knew their daughter, knew she had been keeping a secret, and through a mother's watchful eye, the truth became known to them. But because they loved her, they weren't angry. Maybe a little disappointed that their daughter didn't come to them right away when she first found out she was expecting, but all was soon forgiven, especially so when their grandson was born. Slim, that woman was my sister, Miranda, and that baby, was my nephew, Johnny. I was willing to keep her secret, for as long as need be, but the thing is, Slim, a woman can't hide a pregnancy for long. The truth was going to be found out, by everyone. And it was, but the consequences weren't anything like what had been feared."

"I see what you're trying to tell me, Mort," Slim said, slowly nodding his head. "And I know I can't keep Jess' secret forever, but we just need some time. Jess needs time to fully recover. I don't know, maybe Steve Bolton won't return for revenge, but it's just as possible that he will come back someday when he finds out the truth. And you know Jess nearly as well as I do. Hopefully that someday won't be for awhile yet, but if Steve Bolton was here right now, Jess would crawl out of bed to face him. If that day ever comes, then Jess is going to be able bodied and standing on his own two feet. But I'll tell you one thing that'll be for certain, he won't be standing there alone."

They parted after a handshake and Slim returned to the house, stepping through the bedroom door, seeing Jess still sleeping soundly. Two more men knew, but somehow his lie stung even worse than before. Maybe it was because of that added knowledge, and then what Mort had told him, bringing with it a jabbing question. How much longer did they have? A little or a lot, Slim knew that the time wouldn't pass by easily, for when it was over, the question really could become, how much longer did either of them have to live?


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

It got out. Slim was hoping for another week of secrecy, but all it took was one simple action, in one single moment, for the news to be taken away from the Sherman ranch to be spread throughout Laramie, the Wyoming Territory, and beyond. Slim was with Jess, Mike was in the barn, and Daisy was hanging laundry on the line when a stranger rode up. All he was seeking was water for his horse, and as there was nothing sinister in the way he tipped his hat to Daisy, she gave a nod to the water trough. Slim slowly parted the curtain in the bedroom window, gun in his hand, just in case there was more on the man's mind than some swallows of water. There wasn't, but the man being rather astute, couldn't help but notice the amount of clothing pinned to the line. Two men's shirts; one blue, one brown. Two men's jeans; one blue, the other brown. Two men's long johns; same color. Plus a number of bed linens, all hanging in a row. It meant nothing to him at the time, until he stopped in Laramie.

The man walked into the Stockmen's Palace, choosing the larger saloon over Windy's, as it had always been his assumption that the bigger saloons seemed to have the most action, but by the dismal expression on the bartender's face, he wondered if he had finally made a mistake in judgment. Dropping a coin on the top for a beer to be drawn, he took a long drink and then turned, assessing the entire room in a fraction of a moment. Two men in a corner, one passed out, the other close to it. Three men seated playing a game of poker, but by the meager supply of chips in the center, it was apparent they weren't up for high stakes. And that was it. Not even a woman to waltz up to his side for a sniff of whatever intoxicating perfume she might have been wearing. It was as dead as if someone was dead.

"It always this cheery around here?" He asked the bartender, the sarcasm running as swiftly as the next drink of beer washed down his throat.

"Usually picks up at sundown," the bartender gave a shrug, "but not so much anymore."

"How come?" He set the mug back on the counter and sloshed the remaining contents by pushing the cup back and forth in his hands. "Someone die?"

"As a matter of fact," the bartender reached up to wipe at his eye, "someone did."

"The sheriff?" He questioned, as he had seen towns in deep mourning before when the local lawman had been killed in the line of duty.

"No," the bartender shook his head, "but a man just as well liked. Jess Harper. Ever heard of him? Surprised that you haven't. He was pretty well known. He lived out at the Sherman ranch and relay station."

"Hmm, that's interesting," the man took another sip and then rubbed his jaw. "That's where I stopped this afternoon to get my horse some refreshing. Took a few swallows myself."

"How're they doing out there?" The bartender asked, his eyes taking on a downcast hue. "From what I've heard, they're rather shook up about it."

"Only saw a woman hanging up laundry," the man finished his glass of beer. "She looked all right to me, although I didn't do more than just ask for some water and then ride on, so it might be kind of hard to tell. Looked like a nice spread. How many men work out there?"

"Just Slim now," the bartender sadly shook his head. "Jess was his only hand."

"A lot of clothes for one man," the man muttered slightly, remembering the long line that the woman was working on.

"What do you mean?" The bartender leaned one arm on the bar top and looked perplexingly at the stranger.

"Oh, nothing," the man shrugged. "Just that being the oldest of seven brothers, since my ma didn't have a girl to train, she enlisted me to help hang up our laundry, and we sure had a pile of it. Except all we had were two sets of everything. One to wear, one to wash. The woman was hanging up two of everything. Two shirts, two pants, two long johns. A lot of blankets, too. "

"Really?" The bartender leaned his head closer, so much that the man took an awkward step backward.

"Yeah," he replied, "but what's the big deal of that? The man that lives there must have more sets of clothing than us kids did back in the day."

"Could be," the bartender frowned as he tapped his fingers on the bar top, still curious. "Tell me though, do you remember what color the clothes were?"

"Sure," the man nodded, now his own brow arcing quizzically. "One set was blue, the other was brown."

"He's been dead for six days. Now why would Mrs. Cooper be washing his clothes now? Six days. Six."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," the man gave the bartender a strange look, who was seemingly staring at nothingness, continually saying the number over and over again. "So, I think if there's any more drinking I'm going to do in Laramie, I just might do it in the other saloon over there."

"You don't think…" the bartender said, even though the man he was conversing with was heading through the doors. "No. Slim wouldn't do that. Would he?"

"Who're you talking to?" One of the poker players stepped up to the bar.

"You, I guess," the bartender poured him a glass of whiskey. "Did you hear that Mrs. Cooper's been washing Jess' clothes?"

"Why would she do that?" The poker player asked after he took a swallow.

"I don't know. Maybe he's not dead."

And there it started. It was born a rumor, but since it was an actual truth it didn't take long for word to spread from mouth to mouth, the question marks being replaced with exclamation points. Jess Harper's alive? Jess Harper's alive! It was only a matter of time now. Only a matter of time before the news would be relayed to Steve Bolton.

He was in a café, in a small, southerly Colorado town, seated at the corner table where most men with an unsavory reputation would gather as to attract less attention than if he were seated in the establishment's center. Perhaps if he had chosen differently this time, the conversation coming from a nearby pair of men wouldn't have turned of interest to him, if they had only known who was present in the corner table, they likely wouldn't have uttered a word. Steve Bolton didn't usually listen to other people's chatter, and it normally would have gone unnoticed as he never had a genuine interest in the local gossip. However, there was a name spoken that seemed to reach out and slap Steve across the face, or perhaps it was better felt as a kick in the stomach. Harper.

"Did you hear the news out of Laramie?" The question that preceded that name replayed in Steve's mind.

"You mean about Harper? Yeah, I reckon the story's spread all the way down to Abilene by now," the reply brought a slight turning of Steve's head toward the two men deep in their discussion.

"Kinda startling if you ask me," the older of the two men, noted by the graying at his temples spoke between bites of his meal, and Steve wanted to go dump the contents of his plate onto the floor so he would hurry up about what was so startling about Jess Harper being killed in a gunfight, but Steve kept his position stone still in his chair.

"I suppose," the other man gave a shrug, sipping at his coffee. "I guess it was all Sherman's doing, keeping the lie sealed up."

"Not sure how Sherman figured on keeping it forever though," the fried chicken was brought to his lips, the entire piece being chewed thoroughly before continuing in what felt like an eternity of two or three minutes long. "From what I hear, he and Harper are best friends, so it makes sense that he'd cover up about Harper not being dead."

"Can't help but wonder what Steve Bolton's gonna do when he finds out," the coffee sipper said.

"That shouldn't be too hard to figure out," the chicken chewer replied with a smack of his lips. "Pop, right in the heart."

"Well," he paused, looking up at the waitress as his cup was refilled, "Jess Harper's alive, and everyone around can't stop talking about it. But more than likely, it's only for a matter of how much longer."

"You ready to go?" The napkin was wiped over a greasy mouth and as his companion gave a nod, and another swallow of coffee to follow, they exited the café, the news about Jess Harper spread to one man further, the one that wanted to hear it the most.

Jess Harper. Jess Harper. Jess Harper! Steve Bolton could now say that he fully understood the torment that the name had given his son for eight long years. It was doing it to him now. Jess Harper was alive! Alive! Steve rapidly pulled his gun, aiming at a row of plates on the café's wall, obliterating each one with six successive bullets, the final taking on the image of Jess Harper's face, except this wasn't the vital part of his body that it would eventually get placed. He had a special place for such a bullet, right in the heart. But there was one more face, one more heart, and one more name. This one, brought the same result out of Steve Bolton's gun when it was refilled, and then quickly emptied, creating a scream out a young waitress's mouth. He didn't know his first name, but the last was hammering through his head just as fast as Harper's had been. Sherman. Sherman. Sherman! He would get a bullet, too. Right in the heart.

The sound of his son's voice echoed in his head as Steve stood up, dropping a pocketful of coins on the broken glass covered counter to pay for his outburst, and as he stepped through the café's front door, Steve gave a pat to his horse's neck and then looking toward the north, he said with a smile, "let's go to Laramie."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

"Where's Slim?" Jess asked, pushing away the cup of water that Daisy had brought to his lips. It had been since breakfast that he'd last seen Slim, and that was only a glimpse through the window as his tall frame appeared to be headed for the barn.

"I don't know," Daisy shook her head. "He left sometime this morning."

"What do you mean, 'he left'?" Jess sat up straighter in bed, the alarm shooting through his veins.

"I saw him ride out this morning, just after the westbound pulled out," Daisy answered, the worry settling in her chest.

"Who was driving?" Jess asked, his voice starting to rise.

"Mose."

"He would know," Jess' comment was spoken with a note of trepidation.

"He would know what?" Daisy's own fear starting to creep into her voice.

"If Steve Bolton was back in these parts," Jess yanked the blankets off and put his feet on the floor, his eyes searching for his boots that hadn't been on his feet since the day he was shot. "And Mose would naturally tell Slim."

"You think he's back so soon?" Daisy asked, reaching a hand out to Jess, partly to try to stop him, but mostly because she knew she couldn't and she wanted to offer her hand as support. "And you shouldn't get out of bed."

"He has to be." It would explain the tingling down his backbone that had begun shortly after waking. A gunfighter always knew. "And I have to."

"Jess," Daisy began, her offered hand ignored as Jess rose from his bed, swaying slightly before taking a solid first step. "You've hardly started taking solid foods. You're in no shape to be on your feet, let alone go after Slim. You're still weak."

"If Steve Bolton's really back, then he's gonna be after Slim before he comes sniffing for me. And if that's the case, Daisy, then me being weak or stuck in bed ain't gonna matter one little bit."

"Oh, Jess," Daisy clasped her hands tight together as he swung open the closet door and pulled out his boots. Needing to sit to put them on, he only struggled slightly to regain his feet, but once there, he walked with firm determination through each door, heading for the barn.

"Where're you going, Jess?" Mike asked, running from the side of the house where he was stacking firewood.

"Wherever Slim went," Jess looked down at the light colored head. "You know?"

"No," Mike shook his head, it being the truth, but he wasn't certain that Jess believed him. Not when he had that steely look to his eyes.

"I'll find out," Jess paused his steps, checking the tracks in the dust. East. That made sense. Mose had come from Cheyenne, and if he had brought any news to Slim about Steve Bolton, then the sinister gunfighter must have been there. Slim's leaving meant that he went out to meet him halfway. "Dad-gum that Slim, going it alone."

"What Jess?" Mike asked, hurrying once more as Jess' pace quickened into the barn.

"Nothing, Tiger," Jess said, stepping alongside his horse in his stall. After a gentle rub in greeting, Jess prepared his mount for the saddle.

"Wait, Jess," Mike tugged on Jess' arm before he could touch his saddle. "Aunt Daisy said you couldn't lift anything heavy. That's what she told me when I asked if I could sit on your lap last night before bed. Something about stitches and blood."

"Don't worry, Mike. I ain't gonna leak a drop of it," Jess said, not wanting to add any more moments of delay in catching up with Slim. He gently removed Mike's hand from his arm and then hoisted his saddle to his horse's back, the wince that the pain brought unable to be masked in time. He sucked in a full breath of air and then held it, willing the sharpness in his chest to subside, as he led his horse out of the barn. Once back in the light, Jess released the air through his lips, bringing it swiftly back in as he rose upward to put his backside in the saddle.

"Jess," Daisy called, fear for both of her adult boys coursing throughout her body, but mostly it was for Jess, that he could fall from the saddle if not right there in front of her, but somewhere out on the trail. Or by a vengeful man's bullet.

"Sorry, Daisy," Jess half looked over his shoulder. "I can't heed no warnings this time. Not when Slim's involved. I gotta go before it's too late."

"Come on, Mike," Daisy said as the horse kicked up a swirl of dust as Jess led the animal in a forward leap. "Help me get the buckboard ready. You and I are going to Laramie and get Sheriff Cory, the doctor, or anyone that might help with what's about to go on out there!"

Jess hadn't traveled but a few miles when a hand slowly rose to his chest in an involuntary movement to try to soothe the pain that had slowly been intensifying into something worse than severe. Jess began to unbutton his shirt from the top down, stopping at the last two buttons just above his belt line. Jess didn't have to look, he already knew. The warmth against his flesh, the stickiness underneath his shirt, the sensation that something was trailing down his ribcage all gave a clear enough indication. Jess was bleeding. He ignored it the best way a man could ignore one's pain and oozing life source, and continued onward. What did a little bit of blood matter anyway, when Slim's could already be draining on the ground?

He'd been on the road for two hours, following Slim's tracks the best that he could through the other horse and wagon traffic that had traversed the trek from Cheyenne to Laramie. He pulled his horse to a stop when a fresh trail veered from the roadway to the south. Slim's? Jess hesitated for only a moment before taking the pathway, only traveling a short distance before he made a solid guess that he was on the right trail. The sensation in his backbone had intensified so strong that it was attempting to drown out the thrumming of pain near his heart, which meant that Steve Bolton was close. And where the gunman would be, Slim wouldn't be far away.

He crossed a shallow stream, the tracks in the softer ground made not long before his arrival and then Jess took a slower step upward at the rise of a hill, fully suspecting what he'd find on its other side. There, Jess saw them. He reined in and slid to the ground, pulling his rifle down with him. He could have easily set Steve Bolton in his sights, dropping him with one pull of the trigger, but what kind of fight was that? Bolton would boldly laugh in his face. If Steve had been in position of gunning Slim, it would be different, but from Jess' point of view, it still appeared to be his battle alone. Jess left the rifle with his horse and continued on foot, every step bringing a renewed stab in his chest, but also a heightened need to get in position before the title would fully be Slim versus Steve.

He was quickly gaining ground, the brush silently parting as he passed through, ready to make his presence known, but not with his gun drawn. Jess could have made his entrance fully prepared to stop Bolton before a gunfight could ensue, but he knew that the hatred such as the man was carrying for both men couldn't be stopped any other way than with a matched draw. And Slim was no match. He only had a few more steps to go, and then he would take this out of Slim's hands.

Jess knew the exact moment when Slim saw him, for his partner's face exploded with emotion. Bolton misjudged it for fear, a laugh starting to tickle his throat, the sound magnifying the anger throughout Jess' pulse. He put a finger to his mouth, silencing the retort that he could see was close on Slim's tongue, and then felt the flicker of a grin start to spread across his mouth, for sometimes a challenge tasted sweet.

"Bolton!" Jess' shout came back with almost the same fire in every echo that bounced off the hills.

"Harper." It was spoken with whispered astonishment, yet the pleasure to be meeting him now was clearly seen on his face. But what was going on inside of Steve's head was far from anything close to a whisper. Jess Harper. Jess Harper. Jess Harper! This would be the last time the name would be uttered, sending off a staccato rhythm in his head. Jess Harper was going to die. Right now. He pulled the gun out of his holster and raised it to his preferred level.

"You gonna commit murder?" Jess asked, eyeing the gun that was pointed at his heart, perhaps only an inch or less from where he felt the blood seeping closer to his shirt front. "Or are we gonna do this right?"

"We'll do it right," Steve gave a short nod before dropping the gun back to his thigh and then a thumb was thrust behind him. "Then I'll take care of Sherman."

"Kinda cocky, ain't ya?" Jess didn't try hard enough to stop the smirk from flashing across his mouth. "Just like Wes was when I blew out his leg all those years ago. Maybe that's what gave me the edge then."

"You have no edge at all," Steve's voice had the beginning notes of a growl.

"Each man has a right to his own opinion," Jess said, his hand staying close to his side, not hovering, not moving, but ready.

"Wait, Jess," Slim's voice suddenly cut through the thick tension and Jess' eyes darted back to his partner, inching closer toward the two trained gunmen.

"You'll get your turn, Sherman," Steve turned his head slightly to give Slim a piercing glare that firmly stated for him to not take another step. "Let Harper here have his moment."

"Then give us one of those moments," Slim said, ignoring the unspoken command as he continued his steady pace to Jess' side.

"All right," Steve said, waving a hand in Slim's direction. "I guess I can let you say your goodbyes, although you two could swap howdy-do once you reach the other side. Unless you're afraid one of you is destined for heaven and the other for hell. I wonder who is going where? Shouldn't be too hard to figure out, huh, Harper?"

"Didn't know you liked to talk so much," Slim said, keeping his eyes fastened to Steve's hard stare as he stilled his feet by Jess' side. "That was never a part of the stories told about you that helped build you up as a legend. Nervous?"

"Easy, Slim," Jess' voice held as much ice as what would solidify a mountain lake in the dead of winter. "Don't sway him. I gotta be his target first."

"Jess, no," Slim said under his breath. "You couldn't beat Wesley, how do you expect to beat his father?"

"That was different," Jess replied just as quietly. "Then, I was only defending myself, now, I'm defending you. Step aside, Slim. He ain't gonna wait much longer, and he just might be rotten enough to kill you straight away. Besides, as much as I appreciate what you wanna do, there ain't room for two in a gunfight. Now get."

Wasn't this exactly the same, only with a different man in a different setting? Slim had been determined to stand alongside of his partner, but it was true, there wasn't room for both of them. He would get his chance to face Steve Bolton if Jess would fall. Slim was no professional, but he also wasn't an amateur and if that moment came, he would then have enough revenge in his own blood to make up for the in between. Slim knew Jess' eyes would be fully on his opponent, but he turned his gaze upon his partner and began his steps away. When he knew his distance was an appropriate span, he stopped, his eyes still on Jess, and in one brief second, Jess flicked his eyes to collide with Slim's, everything that needed saying being given in that one glance. And then Jess' focus was back on the gunman across from him. It was time.

The someday that Steve Bolton had predicted was here. Over the years, all of the bullets out of both Bolton's guns had obliterated an untold amount of glass and other breakable objects with Jess layered over the intended target. But Jess Harper is not made of material that merely crumbles. He's not made of glass that shatters into pieces landing in shambles on the ground. Slim had made the definition quite clear as Jess was fighting for his life, fighting for that last breath on the table as Captain Foster carved the bullet out of his chest. It would have been repeated now, but silence was completely in control, with nothing that could break it except the sound of a gun being fired. Jess is fight, strength, stubbornness, power, fire, and heart. He is everything. But then, Jess is so much more. So much more that he already survived a near fatal blow to his chest. And the opponent knew all of this too. Jess Harper's heart is strong, but not everything can endure.

There was no warning, only a flash of action as Steve's hand released the gun from its holster a fraction of a second faster than Jess could pull his own. There was no double sound of the guns firing, only a singular loud blast as the bullets took flight in the precise aim that they were given. There was no vocal indication that flesh was struck, but one man started to stagger, his gun falling to the dirt, as another stood his ground, his gun still in its decisive aim.

Slim wanted to call out, but his tongue stayed locked behind his teeth bitten lip, a body now collapsing onto the ground. The air was stuck in his throat, and as he opened his mouth slightly to release both air and voice, suddenly a severe tightness began around his middle, thrusting upward until it felt as if Slim's heart had just received a bludgeoning blow. It wasn't over. Jess began to sway, only being able to stay upright for another second before falling face first to the ground, the unmistakable stain of red on Jess' front flashing before Slim's eyes the moment before the sickening thud met his ears.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

"No! Not again!" Slim cried out, a sound of deep emotional grief coming from his middle. He ran to Jess' side, immediately kneeling in the dirt to roll his partner's body over, expecting the worse and then finding just that, the mark of blood right over his heart. "No, no, no!"

Slim's hand slid across Jess' chest, finding the fresh blood, not pulsating underneath his fingers, but only dampening his palm. His head had been bowed low over his partner, but suddenly started to rise as his brain, at first clouded over with sorrow, began to register what the steady beat underneath his hand meant. Jess was still alive. And then his body began to move. "Jess?"

"Slim?" His name was followed by a wheezing moan as both of Slim's hands came to Jess' shoulders to keep him on the ground.

"Whoa, now, Pard," Slim said, strong alarm still flooding his veins, yet relief starting to tap his temples. He was bleeding, but, where was the bullet hole?

"He dead?" Jess turned his head far enough to the side to see Steve's body sprawled out on the ground, still wanting to rise, but being firmly held in place by Slim's strong grasp.

"I haven't checked," Slim shook his head, "because I had to check you first. But from here, he definitely looks it. Jess, are you…?"

"I'm all right," Jess answered, but by the look in Slim's eyes, he knew his partner didn't believe his response. "Only 'cause I got him with one shot."

"His bullet?"

"Never touched me."

"How?" Slim asked in astonishment, giving a quick glance to Bolton's body on the ground.

"He made a mistake," Jess raised a hand to his forehead. "He switched his target. I felt the bullet whiz right on by, probably clipped a coupla hairs. I reckon he musta wanted to be sure I was a goner this time, but he missed."

"Then why'd you fall?" Slim asked, touching the soiled circle on Jess' front. "And the blood?"

"You ever know me to heed a warning?"

"Not usually," Slim answered, raising a brow.

"Daisy said I was too weak to come after you and I reckon she was just about right. My strength ran out just after the gunfight. Oh, and this," Jess put his hand up to his seeping wound. "I musta busted something open when I saddled my mount. Riding all this way didn't do it much good, either. That's all your fault, you know, wanting to take on Steve Bolton without me clear out here. Help me, up, Slim. This ground ain't at all a soft place to land."

"All right, Jess," Slim placed his hand firmly in Jess' and started hoisting him from the ground, but then something behind them caught his eye and Slim suddenly had to let Jess go.

Steve Bolton wasn't dead.

"Jess!" Slim called out the warning, his hand flashing to his hip as one was raised from the ground, knowing the opposing speed and that he would never be a perfect match.

The gunshots were fired, the bullets from each weapon searing through the air, obeying the aim of the one who pulled the trigger, but accuracy could only be perfected by one. The man with the reputation couldn't beat the man without the reputation. Weakness, a gunfighter's worst enemy, played the crucial role. Bolton had little to sustain him, only revenge, but Slim still had it all and it was his bullet that struck Steve Bolton, while his split the difference in space between Slim and Jess' bodies. Slim slowly walked toward Bolton, his weapon still readied just in case there was still a flicker of fire left in the gunman, but as Slim kneeled beside him, he could see that his life had been completely snuffed out.

"He wasn't dead," Jess said after pulling his own body from its position on the ground.

"He is now," Slim stood up, only then dropping his gun inside of his holster, noticing that Jess had just done the same. "There's finally been a fight that Steve Bolton lost."

"Thanks to you," Jess smiled, placing a hand on Slim's shoulder, "a nonprofessional, too."

"No," Slim shook his head, not wanting to have his name tagged on as Steve Bolton's killer. "You still downed him. The reputation as the fastest can now be all yours."

"Long time ago, I woulda readily claimed it," Jess answered slowly, "but now, I wouldn't even want it."

"Good to know, Pard," Slim said and then turned his head toward the north. "Hear that? Someone's coming."

"As long as it's not someone wanting to challenge our fast guns, I'll welcome them," Jess turned toward where he'd left his mount, waiting for the sound of the rider to turn into something visible. "It's Mort."

"Yeah, and look what's coming behind him," Slim pointed at the wagon, "Daisy, Mike and Doc Sweeney, too. I wonder what's going on?"

"I dunno, but dad-gum," Jess said with a slight frown as the wagon rolled nearer, "Daisy's never gonna let me outta bed when she sees that my wound's opened back up. Can't you gimme your vest to put on over it so she won't see it?"

"Nope, I've done all the lying for you that I'm going to do," Slim gave a nod toward the red mark, "besides, don't you think she'd notice anyway?"

"Probably," Jess gave a slight shrug as Mort pulled his horse to a stop. "Mort, how'd you know where to find us?"

"Daisy came and got me and Doc after you lit out, and on our way here, we heard the shots. I started hurrying, and then find out that none of us needed to worry at all. I gather you killed Steve Bolton."

"We both did, Mort," Jess answered, holding up two fingers. "Two fair fights."

"Two?" Mort asked in surprise and then lowered his voice. "I suppose there's a pretty good story in there, but tell me sometime when a lady and little boy aren't present."

"We will, Mort," Slim answered with a nod.

"Slim! Jess!" Mike exclaimed, leaping from the wagon before it came to a halt, he ran to jump in Jess' arms, but Slim caught him mid-air.

"I'll take the hug for us both," Slim gave Mike an extra squeeze. "I don't think Jess can tolerate your weight just yet."

"Jess!" Daisy rushed forward when she saw the blood stain on his shirt. "You're hurt!"

"I'm all right, Daisy," Jess protested, but couldn't stop Daisy's hands from feeling the wound. "At least I ain't hurt no more than I was before."

"Probably just some stitches," Daisy gave a short nod. "Thankfully it doesn't feel like all of them gave way."

"Good thing we brought the doctor, huh, Aunt Daisy?" Mike asked, still being held in Slim's arms.

"Yes," Daisy gently patted Jess' chest with her hand. "But this probably can wait until we get home. I was just so worried! I was so afraid for you both I didn't know what else to do but send Mort and the doctor after you."

"You did right, Daisy," Slim said, seeing the tears welling up in her eyes.

"Ain't you gonna scold me?" Jess asked, also aware of the brimming moisture and he pulled Daisy into his arms, not caring if wrapping his right arm around her back tugged more on his wound.

"I should," Daisy answered, wiping a tear from her eye, only to have another take its place on her cheek when she stepped out of Jess' embrace, "but I won't. I'm just so happy that you're alive. Once I get you home in bed I might change my tune. No, no, don't frown, I only said might."

"Good," Jess broke into a grin, "'cause I was afraid you was gonna send me to bed without supper, and I'm finally feeling hungry enough to eat half a steer."

"Then we better get home so I can cook one," Daisy wrapped her arm around Jess' waist, walking him to the wagon. "Are you sure half is going to be enough?"

"Well, if Mort and the doc stay for supper, I reckon we'll need more."

Daisy's laughter carried like a melody to the sky, floating on the breeze in the homeward direction, still ringing after the steaks were eaten and Jess was put to bed. Jess continued to hear the gentle hum coming from her mouth as he was ready for some shut eye, for the toil from the day had long since caught up with him. He rested his head against the pillow, his lashes drooping low, soon the soft song drifted into his dreams until the only images he saw were those of beauty and warmth, not an unknown darkness. He was seated underneath a tree with a wide canopy of green, his hands holding a piece of iron, Slim standing not far away with a hammer to chisel it. A white bird rested on a leafy branch above them and cooed Daisy's song as sunlight flickered from above. His name was spoken and the men exchanged what was in their hands, and then Jess looked up to find the dove, but it had spread its wings in flight. But the peace that it brought was there to stay. Jess blinked his eyes in the light, hearing his name again, but this time it was louder, firmer, more real.

"Sorry, Jess," Slim apologized when Jess' eyes fluttered open, his feet already turning back toward the door, "I didn't know you were asleep."

"I ain't anymore," Jess put an arm behind his head, "but no matter, go ahead and stay."

"It has been a long day," Slim said, thinking back to the morning when Mose gave him the news that Steve Bolton was seen leaving Cheyenne and all of the events that took place between then and now. "Sleep will sound sweet to me, too."

"Hey, Pard," Jess leaned slightly forward, his own thoughts close to mirroring Slim's, "you were really gonna take on Bolton for me. How come? Especially when you knew you probably woulda died trying."

"That's a pretty easy answer, Pard," Slim sat down on his bed and looked at Jess. "I mean you should already know it."

"Enlighten me," Jess urged with his eyebrows arched.

"The same reason you took him on for me."

"Oh." His response was simple, but the knowledge was there. Jess knew. It could have been worded as revenge, but that word was built on hatred. This was friendship, and that was built on love.


End file.
